“Let me look at you.”
His hands rose slowly.
Large. Calloused.
Scarred from battles and consequences.
But when they touched me, they were impossibly careful.
His fingers cupped my face first.
Warm.
Grounding.
His thumbs brushed over my cheeks, wiping away dried blood that had crusted onto my skin.
He traced the swelling along my jaw. Followed the faint bruises forming under my eyes.
His touch moved lower.
Along my neck.
Across my shoulders.
Down my arms.
He examined every mark like a soldier assessing damage after a war.
Every touch was deliberate.
Every movement controlled.
“Were you hurt?” His voice dropped lower.
Danger simmered beneath it. “Did they... touch you in a way that—”
“No.”
I cut him off quickly.
Too quickly.
I swallowed. “They didn’t violate me this time.”
His jaw tightened—but he kept listening.
“I killed one of them instead.”
His fingers stilled slightly against my skin.
“The masked man who hurt me before.”
“Hargrove.”
Saying his name tasted like poison.
Ruslan’s eye widened for half a second.
