Year of the Boar, Eighth Month, Day 12.

The Chief stopped just short of violence last night. I could almost sense the anger in him surging through his veins, pulsating just under the surface of his skin as he bedded me. He has found out what I did to Sol-Mae. He does not believe that it was an accident and so he is furious with me for attempting to murder his fourth wife. I did not have time to disabuse him of the notion and now I lie here, sore and nauseated; unsure what on earth I should do.
He did not speak to me as he held my wrists above my head and thrust himself upon me rendering me breathless and weak. He brought about his release as he opened his mouth on my left breast and closed his teeth hard; the skin there is broken, bruised and tender. It bled during the night, staining my bed linen but I have said nothing about it. When he bit me, I heard myself scream out not in agony but with some other emotion that I cannot name and I floated outside of my own body as my head spun and raw, dizzying sensation washed over me. The Chief barely made a sound except to growl in satisfaction and we had no conversation before he left my bed.
I should be insulted, I should be angry and disgusted; I am none of those things but I am frightened in a way I do not think I have ever been. Not when mother held me prisoner in my own home, not when I slept alone under a bush in the middle of nowhere and not when first I lay with a boy.  I am afraid and sickened by the fact that the more debased our coupling becomes, the more I want of it. I writhe in pleasure when he takes a strap to me, when he pulls my hair and when he is rough and now when he causes me physical injury. This cannot end well. In the cold light of day when I think of what I allow him to do to me, what I long for him to do to me, I am appalled by what I have become.  Mother was right...
My chest hurts.