He was the stuff of nightmares, horror films and campfire stories, with his bloodsoaked face and painful grip on her wrists, the overpowering press of his body against hers too close to get her knee between them again, and the threat of the fate he thought was waiting for her.
That wasn’t going to be her fate, though; Melpomene’s belief in her own future with this child was far too strong to let herself be cowed by his plans. “I’m pregnant,” she said, through gritted teeth, her voice growing icier and harder with conviction the more she spoke. “I’m pregnant to Ares, motherfucker. God of war, destroyer of men. When he finds out you have me locked in a cell, he will rip. The place. Apart. And then he and I? We’ll skin you alive. Slowly. I’m going to start with this gash on your face.”
He wasn’t the only one who could play the horror card.