I don’t scream, because . . . “Because screaming doesn’t help,” he murmured. “Does it?” My heart thundered in my chest, but I remained frozen, staring up at him as he looked at my body and the bruises in the shapes of fingers wrapped around my upper arm. The scrapes on my legs and the blue and purple on my shoulders. “Because you get tired of being the victim,” he said, like he was thinking out loud, “and it’s easier to just let it happen.” He raised his eyes, meeting mine again, and my throat stretched painfully as his words burrowed into me. He loosened his hold, but I didn’t run. “To just
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