"If I'm going to see what they did to you, you're going to show me properly." I sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread, arms crossed. "Now strip. Slowly. I want to see every bruise, every mark. I want to know exactly what happened to you."
She obeys, and watching her undress is both arousing and heartbreaking. The sweater comes off first, revealing shoulders marked with fingerprints. The t-shirt beneath follows, and she's wearing nothing underneath—the borrowed clothes included no proper undergarments, and her ribs were too damaged for anything with structure. When she raises her arms to pull off the shirt, she winces—a sharp intake of breath that tells me her shoulder hurts. Her torso is a canvas of bruises—purple and yellow and green blooming across pale skin. Dark marks on herribs where he kicked her. The shadow of fingers on her upper arms where the guards held her. The marks from the zip ties on her wrists are angry and red.
But beneath the damage, she's still beautiful. Still Jordan. The curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the strength in her shoulders despite the injuries.
"Keep going," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended.
She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of the sweatpants, pushing them down. The fabric slides over her hips, catching slightly as it moves past her backside. She winces—still tender from last night's discipline, the skin there undoubtedly pink and sensitive. When she steps out of the pooled clothing, she stands before me naked except for the pearl collar.
The afternoon light from the window catches on the pearls, making them glow against her throat. Below them, the handprint where the leader choked her is stark and dark—thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. Evidence of how close I came to losing her.
"Choices that saved lives," she says quietly, holding my gaze. "Choices I'd make again."
She's magnificent. Bruised and battered, marked by violence, but standing proud and unbroken. This is my wife—brave, stubborn, beautiful, and completely unbreakable.
"On the bed," I tell her. "On your back."
She climbs onto the mattress, wincing as her bruised muscles and sore bottom protest. I strip efficiently, watching her eyes track my movements. When I'm naked, I join her, settling between her thighs.
"Color?" I ask quietly, my hands gentle on her hips.
"Green." Her voice is breathless. "So green, Master."
I lean down, kissing her carefully, avoiding her split lip. "We're going to go slow. You're going to let me take care ofyou. And if anything hurts—if you need me to stop—you tell me immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, Master."
I start with her neck, kissing the bruises there, my tongue tracing the pearls of her collar. She shivers beneath me, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders. I work my way down, cataloging every injury, every mark. My mouth on her collarbone. Her breasts, careful of the bruising on her ribs. Her stomach, where his boot connected.
By the time I reach her thighs, she's trembling, her breathing ragged.
"Please," she whispers. "Please, Fitz."
"I've got you, love." I settle between her legs, spreading her thighs wider. The first touch of my tongue makes her gasp, her hips lifting off the bed. She's already wet, her body responding despite the pain and exhaustion. I take my time, learning her all over again as if this is our first time. Long, slow strokes with my tongue. The flutter of pressure against her most sensitive spot. The slight scrape of teeth that makes her cry out.
Her hands find my hair, gripping hard. Not to guide me—she knows better—but to anchor herself as sensation floods through her. I slip two fingers inside her, finding the spot that makes her thighs shake, and work it steadily while my mouth continues its assault.
"Fitz," she moans, her voice breaking. "Oh God, Fitz, I can't?—"
"You can," I tell her, my breath hot against her skin. "You will. Come for me, Jordan."
When she falls apart, it's spectacular. Her back arches off the bed, her thighs clamping around my head as she shatters. The sounds she makes are raw and unguarded—pleasure and relief and the emotional crash of everything that's happened. Tears stream down her face as wave after wave rocks through her.
I give her a moment to recover, then kiss my way back up her body. "Still green?"
"So green." She reaches for me, pulling me down for a kiss that's all heat and desperation. "Inside me. Now. Please."
I position myself carefully, mindful of her injuries and her tender backside. The head of my cock presses against her entrance, and I pause there, holding her gaze. "Look at me. I want to see you."
Her eyes lock with mine as I enter her, slow and controlled, giving her body time to adjust. She's hot and tight and perfect, and the sensation of being inside her again—alive, together, whole—nearly undoes me.
She wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me deeper, and makes a sound that's half pleasure, half relief.
"That's it," I murmur against her ear. "That's my girl. You're here with me. You're mine. We're alive."
We move together, and I keep the pace deliberate. Not the rough, desperate coupling we sometimes indulge in, but something deeper. Her hips rise to meet mine with each thrust. The pearl collar shifts against her throat with every movement. Her breath comes in short gasps that match my own.
I brace myself on one arm, using my free hand to grip her hip, angling her so I can go deeper. The change in position makes her cry out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
