Dawn finds Uther at the fence line, his limp barely slowing the command in his stance as Helena approaches with the papers that will bind them. The marriage is a necessity for the claim, yet his eyes promise she will pay in more than her name.

His voice clips orders that strip away her defenses one by one. She meets them with terse replies that fracture into something softer when his hand finds the small of her back. The birthmark on her thigh waits beneath layers she never meant to surrender.

In the hayloft after the rider passes, his fingers hook her hem. The degradation begins with the first strike, and neither knows if she will beg him to stop or to continue until the claim and her pride lie equally bare.