One man's trash

Basilisk could feel a headache coming on, and he rubbed his head with a huff of frustration. Surrounded by disagreeable women. And who's fault was that? At least one had gone, and he didn't have to deal with her quivering form in the corner any longer. That just left him and Ingita. His wife… who clearly thought she had some shred of leverage in this relationship. 


He prowled closer to her, utterly silent on the stone floor. He reached her tiny form, and leaned back on his haunches. Using his forelegs to manipulate her body, to turn her towards him. So small, so fragile. She may have gained some inner strength, but it seemed her body would never follow suit. Less than half his height, a great deal less than half in weight class, and built in delicate angles.


He extended a claw and brushed it through the fur above her eyes. “My dear Ignita. You belong to me, in body and soul. Who are you to deny me anything?” the last was said in a soothing whisper, as if they were words of comfort.