The car is silent, save for the hum of the car engine as it drives down the pebbled path. I'm sweating despite the air conditioner being on.
I try not to think of the pistol, try not to think of the way Drogo's eyes burn when they land on the whip mark, and also try not to admit I feel a pang of satisfaction seeing my father in pain for the first time.
I know, I know. I should be scared.
Terrified even.
This man... I mean, my husband shot someone at his own wedding. His father-in-law. Out of the blue.
It's a clear sign all the devious things they said about him were true.
He can’t possibly have almost killed me last night and miraculously shoot my father because of the whipping I thought he had ordered.
That is absurd.
I try to focus on my twisted hands on my lap, knuckles white
