The pressure of his hand across her throat hurt her, but in
some strange way it also gave her pleasure. Love, the schoolmaster,
again stood by her side teaching her the lesson learnt sooner or later
by all women, that pain at the hands of one beloved is a thing close
akin to joy. She felt incapable of any struggle or resistance, bodily
or mental. She had given her heart therefore her body was also his to
use as he willed, and feeling her thus abandoned to him all the boy's
chivalry was stirred anew, and the hunger for possession was lost in
the desire to serve and protect.
Possibly if he had been forty instead of twenty-eight, he would perhaps
have demanded a man's rights. Being, however, according to the world's
standard, a fool and a dreamer, he chose to let the moment pass, to
refuse what the gods offered, to think of Arithelli rather than of
himself.
"I'm hurting you, dear." His voice shook a little, in spite of his
efforts to control it.
"No. Nothing hurts now. And I'm glad you love me."
"I hurt you a minute ago. I was mad and a beast.
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