I closed the door behind me. Set the kit on the nightstand with a click that sounded louder than it should have.
No permission asked. No consent needed. She didn’t flinch when I sat beside her. But she didn’t lean into me either.
She stayed still. Tense. Waiting. Waiting for punishment. Waiting for mercy. She wasn’t going to get either.
I unscrewed the lid of the salve. The scent hit first — clean, sterile, surgical. It didn’t belong here. Neither did she.
“Show me.” My voice didn’t rise above the silence. It didn’t need to.
Her hands trembled as she peeled the blanket down. Slow. Careful. Like every movement cost her more than she could afford.
The collarbone first. Purple-black and swollen. A bloom of violence painted on her skin. She turned slightly, wincing when her ribs protested. Her lip was split. Dried blood caked in the corner of her mouth. Her cheekbone carried a swelling bruise that would deepen before it faded.
I dipped two fingers into the salve. Pressed it against the wound. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just deliberate.
She sucked in a shallow breath, her body flinching under the contact. But she stayed still. I moved lower, hand braced against her shoulder to steady her. Faint fingerprint bruises marred her ribs — ugly reminders of hands that didn’t belong. I pressed the ointment in slowly. Deliberate, circular motions that forced her to feel every second.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. She breathed through it. Because mercy was never part of the deal. Shallow. Ragged. Like she knew even pain was a privilege now.
When I reached her thigh, I hesitated. A deep bruise. Dark, furious. Half-hidden beneath the fabric of her shorts. I looked up once. Waited. She nodded. No words. Because she knew better now. I pushed the fabric aside. Saw the wreckage of her skin. Saw the tremble in her muscles as I pressed the salve in.
Slow.
Measured.
Ownership written in each silent pass of my fingers.
“Breathe,” I said.
She tried.
God, she tried.
The breath rattled out of her lungs like it hurt. Because it did.
When I finished, I wiped my hands clean. She looked up once. Eyes wide. Mouth trembling with a question she didn’t dare speak aloud.
I didn’t wait for it.
“You don’t talk while I’m healing you.”
My voice was flat. Final. Not kindness. Not cruelty. Maintenance. Because no one else got to touch what was mine.
I rose. Left her sitting there, skin still raw, salve still slick against bruises that would never really fade. Left her holding the weight of a body that wasn’t hers anymore.
She didn’t follow when I left the room. She wasn’t ready yet. I waited by the window. Watched the city breathe under clouds that looked too clean for the kind of rot crawling beneath them. When I heard her footsteps—barefoot, careful—I didn’t turn.
I just spoke.
“Come here.”
The floor creaked once under her weight.
Closer.
Slower.
I still didn’t look. Because she wasn’t a person anymore. She was a silence that belonged to me. When I turned, she was standing in front of me. Arms crossed tight across her bruised ribs. Hair tied back like it wasn’t hers to touch. Eyes wide, but not defiant anymore. Just waiting.
