The horseman’s gaze drops to the wounds that decorate my torso. I actually hear his sharp inhale. And now I think I understand his reason for lingering—he wanted to see my wounds. He pushes away from the counter, his gaze locked on my scabbed-over wounds. “They tore you apart.” I glance down, and the memory hits me again. I can feel those men’s hands on me and I can hear the wet, meaty sound of their knives stabbing me over and over again. “There are eleven different marks,” I say. I don’t know why I tell him. “And I imagine you laid for a long time in pain, alone and frightened.” My steely
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