Peter was starting to grow weary of her minimal answers and lack of enthusiasm. But every he touched her, her skin crawled under the force of the awful memories. Stan had never told her, but she was pretty sure, he’d prevented worse when he’d bribed them with booze. And while she was truly grateful, sometimes she wished he’d let them kill her. At least then she wouldn’t have to endure the images in her head. Nor the feel of groping hands on her n***d skin. The smell of alcohol on their lips. Repulsed at the memory, she gagged.
“Are you sure, you’re alright?” Peter asked for the umpteenth time, so much sorrow in his eyes. She really should be better at hiding her distress from him. With everything he’d been through he didn’t need a wife who flinched every time he touched her.
Thankfully,
