I look down as her bound hands rise to my cheek. She moves slowly, watching me as though I might bite, before spreading her fingers like a flower in bloom and brushing them over the welt. Every muscle in my body seizes. Her touch is as light as a whisper; soft enough to hurt. I don’t stop her. Can’t. Instead, I stare at her and wonder if her gaze would soften like that if she knew why I have it. If she knew she is behind every slash, bruise, and ache in my body right now. If she knew how sick I am, how desperate I am to know her secret.
