Free House of Angels by Freda Lightfoot

this was wrong. Trying to tell her father so, to resist these demonstrations of affection, was another matter altogether. Josiah wasn’t a man to take no for an answer.
    She used to hide in the cupboard, holding her breath and covering her eyes with her hands, hoping and praying that if she couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t find her. But he always did. He’d make a game of it, a sick sort of hide and seek, where he would call her name softly as he opened drawers and doors, the lid of her toy box, and even look under the rug, saying ‘Now where can my special girl be? I know she’s here somewhere.’
    When he found her, which he always did, he’d carry her back to bed and climb into it with her, start to kiss herand stroke that secret private place, as if this were all a part of the game to prove how very much he loved her. He described it as their little secret, something special which must be kept only between the two of them. He couldn’t seem to understand that she really didn’t like what he did to her, and was far too ashamed and embarrassed to tell anyone.
    There had been a time, when she was approaching womanhood and he began to demand more than simply touching and stroking, that Maggie had tried to actually fight him. She’d smack his laughing face, punch his solid shoulders with small fierce fists. At first he found her resistance amusing, then he’d smack and punch her right back, and his ‘attentions’ following such demonstrations of rebellion had been far more brutal. Thus Maggie had learnt the wisdom of obedience.
    ‘Shove up, my pretty,’ he said to her now. ‘Be a good girl and be nice to your dadda, eh? Let’s enjoy our little secret business.’
    Within seconds he was on top of her, pushing her legs apart, his sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Maggie kept her head turned away in a vain attempt to disassociate herself from what was going on below as he fiddled and poked, stroked and licked her tender parts, grunting and panting all the while. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, but she made not a sound, long since schooled to endure in silence.
    Next came the part she hated most, when he pushed her head down under the covers till she was in close proximity to his own private parts, and it was her turn topleasure him. His choice of word, not hers. The sweaty stench of his hairy loins alone made her gag, let alone the thrust of his loathsome member being rammed into her mouth. Maggie did what was required of her until she could bear no more and did indeed almost vomit.
    By the time he entered her, pinning her down on the bed with his strong hands and his cumbersome, ageing body, coming to a violent and brutal climax, Maggie was beyond caring, beyond thought or emotion of any kind, save to wish that the sheer weight of him might crush her into nothingness. Maggie loathed her father for what he did to her, and loathed herself even more for allowing him to do it. She ached to disappear completely, to sink into some hole in the ground and vanish for ever; longed for it with all her heart. Maybe one day she would succeed and find some way to escape and make herself disappear altogether.

Chapter Seven
    The sun was high in the sky by the time Ella woke that first morning, indicating that it must be quite late. She stretched and stirred, savouring that warm half-doze for another few moments, that half awareness which made her imagine she might be in her own bed. And then she remembered. The bed, the place, her situation, was entirely new and strange. She was married. She was a wife, in name if not in truth.
    Last night Ella had lain shivering in the marital bed, although whether with cold or fear was hard to define. It felt like a combination of both. She certainly didn’t experience the sense of excitement and joy a bride was supposed to feel on her wedding night, and she’d dared not even allow herself to think of Danny.
    She’d left the mutton stew largely