"I'm so sorry, Aria. I'm so sorry. I didn't know where else to go."
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene with the clinical assessment that's kept me alive for two decades. Aria sits on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around Maya's thin frame, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face. Maya's shoulders shake with sobs, her hands clutching at her sister's shirt like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.
Then Maya lifts her head, and my eyes lock onto the purple-black bruise blooming around her left eye.
I've been around violence my entire life. I've caused more black eyes than I can count, broken more bones than I care to remember. I know what real injuries look like, the patterns they make, the way flesh responds to impact.
Something about this one sets off alarms in my brain.
The coloring is right, the swelling appropriate for a fresh injury. But the placement is too perfect, too centered. Self-inflicted injuries have a particular quality, a hesitation in the angle that this bruise displays. The human body instinctively pulls back from pain, creating asymmetry in deliberate wounds.
Maya's performance is convincing. Her tears look genuine enough, her voice breaking in all the right places. But I see the calculation beneath the hysteria, the way her eyes flick toward me to gauge my reaction before quickly looking away.
She's playing her sister. And Aria, desperate to believe Maya is a victim rather than a manipulator, is falling for it.
"What happened?" Aria's voice is soft, gentle in a way that makes my chest constrict.
"Cane." Maya's voice drops to a whisper. "He came to my apartment. Said I was late on a payment. I tried to explain thatyou were working on getting the money, but he just…" She trails off, her hand moving to touch the bruise with theatrical delicacy. "He hit me, Aria. He said next time, it would be worse."
Aria's body goes rigid against her sister, and I watch fury bloom across her features. "That bastard. I'll call the police right now."
"No!" Maya's response is too quick, too panicked. She catches herself, softening her tone. "No, please. He said if I went to the police, he'd come after you. After your business. I can't let that happen."
The manipulation is textbook. Create fear, establish dependency, and ensure Aria feels responsible for protecting her. I've seen it a thousand times in my world, though usually, the stakes are higher than fifty thousand dollars.
I clear my throat, and both women's heads snap toward me. Aria's expression shifts from concern to something guarded, her body language closing off in a way that makes my jaw tighten.
"Maya," I say, keeping my voice neutral, "can I speak with your sister alone?"
Maya's eyes widen, genuine fear flickering across her face before she masks it. "Of course. I should go anyway. I'm staying at a friend's house tonight."
She extracts herself from Aria's embrace and moves toward the door, giving me a wide berth. Smart girl. She knows exactly what I am, even if her sister is still learning.
The moment the door closes, Aria rounds on me, fire blazing in those dark eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what?" I lean against the doorframe, forcing my body into a casual posture that contradicts the tension coiling through my muscles.
"Don't say whatever you're about to say." Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "I know that look. You think she's lying."
"I think the injury might not be what it appears."
The words hang between us like smoke. Aria's face flushes with color, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths that draw my attention to the curve of her breasts beneath her simple sweater. Even furious, she's beautiful. Especially furious.
"What kind of monster suggests someone would hurt themselves for attention?" Her voice shakes with barely controlled rage. "She came here terrified, Nikolai. That bruise is real. The fear in her eyes was real."
I push off the doorframe and close the distance between us, watching her body tense as I approach. She doesn't retreat, though. My stubborn, fierce wife stands her ground even when every instinct should tell her to run.
"I know what violence looks like. And that bruise…" I pause, choosing my words carefully. "The placement is too perfect. Self-inflicted wounds have a particular quality."
"You're wrong." But I hear the flicker of doubt beneath her certainty, see it flash across her face before she buries it. "Maya wouldn't do that. She's been clean for months. She's trying."
"Is she?" I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and cup her jaw with my hand. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, her pulse hammering visibly in her throat. "Or is she playing you the way she's always played you?"
Aria jerks away from my touch, her eyes blazing. "Get out."
"You know I'm right." My voice drops to something rough and intimate. "You know your sister better than anyone. You've seen her manipulate before, watched her lie with tears streaming down her face. That flicker of doubt I saw? Trust it."
Her hands tremble slightly as she crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that puts another barrier between us. "Even if you're right, which you're not, what do you want me to do? Abandon her? Let Cane Harris terrorize her because she might be exaggerating?"
