Pulled out my old whetstone today. Felt the familiar weight of a dagger in my hand for the first time in months. Not for fighting. For skinning the rabbit I caught for dinner. My husband watched from the porch, silent. I could feel his eyes on the way my hands moved, remembering how they used to hold a sword. Later, after we ate, he pinned me against the wall, his breath hot on my neck. 'Seeing you like that,' he growled, his cock already hard against my thigh, 'fucking terrifying. And the hottest thing I've ever seen.' He fucked me right there, my back against the rough wood, my legs wrapped around him. No tenderness, just raw need—his for the warrior I was, mine for the man who isn't afraid of her. I came so hard I saw stars, my cunt milking his cum deep inside me, marking his territory in the one place I'll always be his. Different kinds of sharpness, I suppose. Both keep us alive.