Matthew's fingers curled into fists, anger and frustration rippling through his veins as he forced one foot after the other forward until he was entering one of the five rooms the building possessed, and settling on the slightly smaller bed compared to the bed he was supposed to be sharing with his new wife.

Kicking his boots off, he stretched his rigid body out on the bed and closed his eyes as Sharon's words to him a few seconds ago, rang in his ears.

How did he ever get here?! He mused, tightening his hold on the sheets. How did he move from having his entire life figured out —the plan to invest his life's savings in a farm where he would begin his new life with Gretchen and their children— to having nothing figured out? First it was Gretchen rejecting his proposal, then it was his farm failing, and now, it is his marriage failing even before it begins! Would he ever get anything right?

Gathering the pillow beneath his head in his hands, he sprang to a sitting position and tossed the pillow to the ground; if she didn't want to be married to him, then so be it! He growled, running his fingers through his hair. He would go over there and tell her she could leave! He didn't care for a stubborn woman! He didn't care that that stubborn woman was his only salvation from the controlling fist of his father!

Turning to face the door, he had barely taken three steps to it, before turning back to the bed; he couldn't lose Sharon. He wanted to lose her, but he couldn't for whether he liked it or not, common sense told him that he needed her.

Still —he thought, turning around to face the door once more as he made his way to her room— she obviously didn't want to be here. She made it very clear that she wanted to be left alone. What did she think, that he would leave her alone in his own house?! Surely she knew her being under his roof meant she was subject to his authority?!

Hissing, he withdrew his fist that was poised to knock on her door. No, it was his door! This was his bedroom! She wasn't entitled to it; he only let her stay in it because it was the gentlemanly thing to do. He curled his fist once more and made to knock on the door again. She would open the door, and he would require her to come with him to the courthouse to have their marriage annulled. He would then take her to wherever it was she needed to be, or desired to go to. Perhaps he might even leave her standing there on the sidewalk?

Growling, he turned around sharply, resting his back on the closed door; he couldn't do that, he was incapable of doing any of that. Whether he liked the nasty woman in his bedroom right now or not, he couldn't leave her on the sidewalk. And who knew, perhaps Jenkins would return?

The image of Sharon clinging to him after he had sent Jenkins running off that morning, flashed before his eyes, the memory of the slight trembling of her body as her arms tightened around him, filling his mind. It was in that second that he knew.

Slowly slipping to the wooden floor, he pulled his knees up before him, his elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head and placed both his hands on his head. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes as the singular reason for Sharon's agreement to his marriage proposal became very clear to him; fear.

~*~

Sharon knew she hurt him. It didn't matter how much he tried to hide the hurt behind his anger, she knew she had managed to push the right buttons to get him out of the room. It was what she wanted, wasn't it? Yet, sleep eluded her. For some reason, guilt stabbed at her heart until she was tossing and turning in bed and only falling asleep at dawn and waking up to find that she had slept most of the morning away.

Heaving a nervous breath at the thought of coming face to face with Matthew yet again, she forced one foot after the other down the stairs. Not only did she manage to irritate, anger and hurt him the evening before, here she was, crawling out of bed when it was nearly midday. Certainly, he would think the worst of her.

She shook her head, deciding she didn't care what he thought —she cared nothing for the thoughts of a vile gambler.

But as she made her way into the kitchen, her feeling of unease only seemed to heighten. Pausing by the entryway, she heaved a breath of relief the second her eyes came to rest on the empty room. It was only then that the sweet smell of coffee, bacon and freshly baked bread, began to fill her nostrils. Her eyes drifted to the lone dining table in the room, a small frown immediately claiming her face at the sight of the large breakfast spread out on it.

When was the last time she had breakfast?

She stared at it, her lips parting slightly and her stomach rumbling as she eagerly made her way to the table and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Blondie?”

Startled, she jumped, the scalding hot liquid spilling on her fingers and causing them to release their hold on the cup. She watched in horror as it crashed to the wooden floor, black coffee and shards of glass littering the floorboards around her feet.

The image of her father immediately flashed before her eyes; she saw him passed out on the floor of their home, shards of whiskey bottles lying on the floor beside him. She saw him drunk on the streets, his hand barely holding on to a bottle as he staggered home. And in that second, she lost what was left of the hope she ever had for him —there was no changing him, or making him a better father. There was no saving his life for she had tried severally to do so, and severally, he chose to hang on to his bottle, rather than her.

“Blondie,” something grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back to the present.

Gasping, air filled her lungs as she jerked her head upright.

“Hey,” Matthew. He stood before her, his face only an inch from hers as he searched her eyes. Two thin lines pulled his brows together until they formed a singular brow as concern creased his face. “Are you alright?” His hand swept her brow as he motioned to the glass on the floor.

Her gaze moved to the glass and she frowned —it was beyond redemption. There was no way that it could ever be put together again for not only was it broken, she was certain some of the pieces of the glass had gone missing.

Wasn't that how her life was? Why was she foolish enough to ever believe that her life could be perfect like it had been before her mother passed? That one day, her father would cease to mourn her mother's death and finally take up the role of parenthood he had so cruelly abandoned? Why was she naïve enough to think that her problems could be halted for a few months through her marriage to Matthew? What was even worse was her foolishness in thinking she could ever be free —to live, to be independent, and to be happy. It was nothing but foolishness to imagine that if she indeed stayed married long enough to turn eighteen, she would be independent of all the men in her life who sought to control her. For all she knew, age wouldn't turn her father into a proper parent, neither would it succeed in keeping Jenkins away from her.

And what would she do once she was free? Where would she live? How would she live?

Slowly, she tore her eyes off of the floor and raised her head up to Matthew. Matthew Steiner was the lesser evil. She didn't know him, or love him, but what she did know was that she needed him. As far as she knew, he was one of the best men she had ever come across —out of all the scum whose presence she had been forced to endure— and so far, he hadn't done anything to hurt her... yet.

Perhaps staying married to him was the only choice she had? Perhaps they could learn to tolerate —if nothing else— the presence of each othe—

She hitched a breath, pain momentarily clouding her mind. Glancing down sharply, she withdrew her throbbing hand from his grip.

He swore, her eyes shifting to him. His frown deepened. “You're hurt.”

She turned briefly to her throbbing hand, her skin unbroken and seemingly intact. Yet, she knew it was only a matter of time before the effect of the hot liquid that had only just poured on it, began to show on her skin.

“Here, sit down.” He placed both hands on her shoulders and ushered her to a wooden seat. “I should not have snuck up on you like that.” He muttered and it appeared to her that he was scolding himself as turned around and walked over to the sink.

She watched him work, his back to her as he stood by the sink for several seconds while she sat nursing her aching hand.

“How does Nana do this?!” He muttered a lot louder than before. Turning around with a bowl of water in hand, he placed it on the table before her. “Here, put your hand in this.”

She nodded, complying with his instruction. A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips as her fingers sank into the cold water.

“I am uncertain of where Nana keeps the first aid.”

“I am fine.” She kept her eyes on her hand buried in the water, nervous about looking at him. Perhaps it was his kindness toward her in spite of how she treated him the evening before, that left her feeling somewhat ashamed?

Withdrawing her hand from the bowl once the pain had eased up a little, she wiped her wet hand on her nightdress and rose to her feet. Turning to the mess on the floor, she made to pick up the broken shards.

“Do not worry about that, I'll clean it up.” His words stopped her in her attempt, sending yet another wave of shame down her spine —why was he being so nice to her?

“It is my mess,” She hissed, slightly irritated by her own clumsiness and by the guilt she felt. “I'll clean it up.” It was the least she could do, wasn't it? Besides, she wasn't used to having people help her —especially people she wasn't certain she could trust.

Ignoring his protest earlier, she had begun gathering the broken glasses in her hands when the sound of his retreating footsteps reached her. Jerking her head upright, she watched with mounting guilt, as he exited the building through the back door.