Chapter Sixty-three It was four in the afternoon when Anton woke up. The curtains were firmly drawn over the windows, but he could see the too bright sunlight creeping in below the hem, no where near their bed. Judging from the brightness that it would be at least two hours before the sun went down, he settled back down on the bed. Not tired any longer, he propped his head up on one arm and looked at his wife. She always amazed him. To listen to her tell it, she was a fragile creature who could be shattered at a glance. She didn't seem to realize her own strength. Trying not to disturb her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, then scooted closer so he could feel her body warmth. She twitched beneath his touch, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Her eyes jumped wildly back and forth, like scanning a landscape...a dreamscape of her own making. It was dark, hot, suffocating. She could smell the rich copper-like scent of cooking earth, far away, and closer, there was the mossy richness, the moldy mildew musty perfume of wet green wood. There were bugs crawling across her feet, making her twitch, itch, and tickle. She wanted so badly to brush them off, kill them, stomp them under her feet, but her hands and ankles were bound with thick ropes. Friction burns on her wrists had worn until blood leaked and trickled into her palm. She tried to scream, and even though she could get sound out past her gag, her voice wasn't strong enough to carry past the shed walls. Her lungs hurt, her bare feet throbbed in the cold, and her head still pounded as if her brain might swell out of her skull. She was so tired her eyelids drooped, but she couldn't close them. Wouldn't close them. Because she never quite knew when her captor would return. Tears ran down her face in a steady river, her eyes a broken dam overflowing from the flood. It was getting so hard to breathe. She thought about him over and over again, as if he'd hear her calling to him and run to her rescue. Deep down she knew he wouldn't be coming. He'd probably think she'd left him at the altar. Yet nothing short of a kidnapping could keep her from her wedding. She should've been pulling on her dress at that very moment. Her heart skipped a few beats, tripping over itself as she heard footsteps beyond the door. She screamed through her gag, her voice bloody hoarse with fear. The door of the wood shed creaked open, blinding her with direct brilliant light of a lamp. She squeezed her eyes shut, pain piercing her. After nearly twenty-four hours in total darkness, she thought the light might kill her. But even her eyelids were a pitiful defense. "Someone's been a naughty girl," she heard that voice say. That hateful, angry, and falsely pitying voice, that was undeniably feminine. She opened her eyes a crack, still squinting, and tried to see her captor's face. It was hard to see anything in focus--just a red blur. "I told you you'd be punished if you tried to escape, didn't I, Stephana?" She didn't have to wonder how the bitch knew her name. She was starting to remember this figure she'd seen before. The woman, spiteful and threatening, had told Anton he couldn't escape her. They should've listened. Now it was too late to stop Natasha's rage. "Unfortunately, I can't stay long, dear. I have a wedding to attend...and a groom to console. He'll need someone's shoulder to cry on, when his bride doesn't show. It was awfully cruel of you to do this to him, wasn't it?" She screamed again, trying to tell Natasha to let her go, stop play