He laid he hands on her.
Once, twice. She lost count of the times.
It was a touch she hadn't known. She told herself she liked it, wanted it, welcomed it.
  But in truth she had never known kindness before, so somehow the softness of his palms frightened her more than a closed fist. More than a sharp-toothed kiss.

  She wanted him to tear at her skin, to hate her, to damn her skin black and blue. She wanted to bleed, for him.
  It was the only love she knew.