It's been twelve hours since the parking lot.
Twelve hours since I felt the pressure of Cain's fingers cutting off my air.
Twelve hours since I looked up and saw Leviathan standing there, watching, his face carved from stone.
The bruises are already forming.
I checked this morning, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with the door locked, tilting my chin up to examine the damage.
Four distinct marks on the right side of my neck, one on the left.
His thumb and fingers, mapped out in purple and yellow.
I've gotten good at covering bruises.
Concealer, foundation, a strategic scarf.
But these are harder to hide.
These are visible. These tell a story I can't afford to let anyone read.
I wind a silk scarf around my neck—pale blue, one of the few nice things I owned before Cain—and check my reflection.
It looks natural enough, like a fashion choice, not a necessity.
No one will question it. No one ever questions it.
Cain left early this morning.
He didn't say where he was going, just grabbed his keys and walked out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
He's been in a strange mood since we got home last night.
Quiet. Brooding.
He didn't hit me—didn't even yell—just sat on the couch drinking until he passed out, leaving me to clean up the bottles and wonder what was coming.
The waiting is almost worse than him hurting me.
I know something's wrong.
I saw it in his eyes when Leviathan told me to go inside.
That flicker of fear beneath the bravado.
Cain's scared of very little in this world, but he's scared of the President. Everyone is.
And the President saw.
I don't know what that means. Don't know if it means anything at all.
Men like Leviathan don't interfere in other men's business.
That's the code, isn't it?
What happens between a man and his woman is private.
Sacred. None of anyone else's concern.
