You lay there counting your breaths - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 - forcing the fingers on your hand to stay loose, the smile on your face relaxed. The boy, because that's really what he was, not a man, but an overgrown boy, comes towards you with a predatory grin on his face, promising all the things he wants to do to you, all the places he's going to put his prick and make you cry out satisfaction. He thinks it's what you want to hear, promises of taking you from behind until you can't tell the old gods from the new, of riding you until your very insides fall apart.
He leans over you and reaches for your shirt, making a face at the skin an bones he finds underneath. "You're a skinny one aren't ya?" He yanks down your shirt and grabs a tit, squeezing it hard, too hard. "Don't worry, I'll find use for you yet." You swallow your bile, making a satisfied moan instead of lashing out. It wasn't time yet.
You watch calmly as he unlaces his pants and kicks them away. You let him push up your skirts up to the thigh, exposing your pale flesh to the cold air. Then, when he is pulling your legs wider and just about to enter you, you wrap your thighs around his waist and flip him over, so that you are now sitting on top of him.
You take pleasure in his surprised laugh. He thinks this is part of the game, that you're just being enthusiastic. He doesn't see the knife you have slipped out from beneath the pillow, not until it is plunged to the hilt in his neck. He gargles up blood before choking on it, and you whisper to him to be silent, to let go and embrace the cold winter air.
You wipe your hands and the blade on the red and gold covers, making a point to ruin the extravagant materials beyond repair. You raid the closet for a better shirt - this one would do, it looked like real silk - before you climb out onto the stone window and leap out into the night. You congratulate yourself on a job well done.