Page 118 of A Thousand Painted Hours

I did not move. I’d already changed for bed and felt vulnerable in my nightdress and robe, my feet bare. “I am your wife, but I cannot help you when you are drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.” He pushed at the door. My nerves jolted. “I just want a cup of tea.”

“It would be better if you find it elsewhere.” A little ribbon of warning ran down my spine, making me alert to every small movement he made, his feet, his eyes, his hand flat on the door. “I was already in bed.”

“Well, let me sleep next to you then?”

“No, Peter.” I braced my hip against the door. “Is there something wrong?”

He scowled. “I’m tired of women who think they run the world. Where would you be if it weren’t for me? Hmm? Living in some bedsit, without a penny. What makes you think you can tell me how to live?” With a sudden movement, he pushed the door, and I lost my hold. “You are my wife. I am the master of this family.”

I cried out as he barreled into the room, holding up a hand as if he would hit me, and that infuriated him even more. “You act like I’ll beat you! Have I ever lifted a hand to you?”

“No.” Not exactly, although he’d become more and more unstable when he drank.

But my body reacted to the memory of him knocking me to the ground the night of the winds. My lungs felt compressed, and the hairs on arms lifted, and I could not help but use my peripheral vision to see what I might use to defend myself if need be.

“Of course not!” He stalked around the room, restless as a tiger, taking an apple from the dish on the table, taking a bite, rounding the room toward my easel, where I was working on a new painting of Gurdaya, in her new guise as a mighty woman. “Who’s this?”

“A friend from my childhood who came to see me.”

His gaze sharpened over his shoulder. “A friend? Have you seen the prince, too?”

“No. Peter, you need to go. You’re in a terrible mood.”

He continued his pacing and started a nonsensical rant about women and how they were ruining the world for men like him. Suffragettes and women in the workplace, artists and archaeologists.

“Is this about Margo? Have you had a fight?”

“What do you know about Margo?” He tossed the apple core into the sink.

“Everyone knows about her,” I said, wearily. “You two have been spotted drinking and scrapping across all of Egypt.”

He went still. “That’s a lie.”

“It is not a lie.” I was exhausted by him suddenly, by all of it. “The two of you have not exactly been discreet.”

“How dare you!” He slapped me.

It was so sudden and violent that I staggered backward, tripping on the edge of a rug and nearly falling down before I righted myself. Fear ran cold through my veins, and as I straightened, I took the offensive. “Get out!” I cried, shoving him. “Go home and sleep it off.”

But he shoved me back. “You’re my wife. I pay for this space.” He pushed me against the wall and held me there, his face inches from mine. I struggled, pushing back against him, but his grip was harsh, his size an advantage. True fear made my limbs shake. “You always think you’re so much better than me, doing me such a favor.” He pressed a forearm against my chest, and with his other hand, tore at my robe.

“Peter, stop!” I cried, trying to grab the fabric back around me, push his hand away. “You will hate yourself.”

“Will I?” A little smile turned up his lips, and he unbuckled his belt.

I shoved again, unbalancing him, and ran for the door. He got there first, and yanked me around, pushing me to the bed, holding me with one knee and one arm while he dropped his pants. “I don’t know what you’re fighting about. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

Gathering all my reserves and my anger, I screamed as loudly as I could. It took him aback, and when he was off guard from the noise, I managed to roll off the bed. I fell on the floor and scrambled away. I heard him behind me, and grabbed the closest thing I could see—a shoe with a substantial heel. With a feral sound, I slammed the heel into his temple, once, and then again. He staggered away, hand to his head, blood trickling from a cut.

“Get out,” I cried. “Out!”

He stared at me for a long moment. I could not tell if he was himself or the monster. I screamed, as loudly as I could manage in my raw throat, “Out!”

He left.

I dropped the shoe, and ran to lock the door, then fell into a chair, trembling, panting.