That second voice was quieter, and it was the truth, and she hated it with the last ember of what she used to be.
She moved.
Her legs spread awkwardly wide to accommodate the heavy bulk of her belly and her ruined, swollen holes, her crawl a low, clumsy, ungainly drag across the wet ground — her milk-soaked, chain-adorned breasts plowing twin grooves through the wet grass, her belly pressing a wider path between them.
She reached his side.
Her trembling hand found his massive, resting palm and pulled it — not to her cheek, not in supplication — but directly onto her massive, aching left breast, pressing his fingers into the abused flesh beside the golden hook with the focused, desperate precision of a woman who had learned exactly where she needed to be touched.
Tears streamed freely down her flushed, beautiful face.
