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Portia "Look at me." "No," "No?" He smacks again and tears sting my eyes. Then he starts rubbing my butt in lazy circles and my wires must cross because all I should feel is pain. Pain and humiliation and brutal injustice. But his hand on me right now, him holding me like he is, that's not all I feel. "Look at me," he repeats. I do, a tear sliding down the side of my face. "What did you think you'd do with a nail file strapped to your thigh like you're some warrior woman?" "What do you expect me to do? Not fight? Not try to defend myself? I was twelve when I started fighting. I don't know any other way to be. Don't expect me to roll over for you in a day. It's not how I'm wired. I know I'm not a warrior woman. I know you're stronger than me and that you'll probably beat me every time
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