“Lift your arms if you can.”
I did.
Carefully.
He peeled the fabric up and over my head with infinite care, as though the smallest mistake might cause pain I wasn’t ready to endure.
The cool air brushed across my skin immediately.
Exposed. Sensitive.
And then—the full damage was revealed.
A thick, angry welts ran across my back—deep, purpling bruises where the baton had struck.
The skin around them was already swollen, darkening into colors that promised worse pain tomorrow.
Vincenzo inhaled sharply under his breath.
Antiseptic wipes came first.
The moment the disinfectant touched my skin, I flinched—muscles tightening instinctively as the sting cut through the raw welts.
He didn’t press harder.
He just adjusted his pace—slow, careful.
Then—the arnica gel.
Cool at first, then soothing as it spread beneath his fingertips.
He applied it with light, circular motions—barely touching, yet somehow reaching deeper than the antiseptic ever could.
The burn softened under his touch, not gone, but less sharp.
When the gel absorbed, his hands shifted.
This time—massage.
Slow. Deep.
His thumbs worked along the edges of my shoulder blades, carefully navigating around the welts, never pressing directly on the bruised areas, but easing the surrounding tension.
Muscles that had been locked tight began to loosen under his touch.
Heat spread through my back.
Not the burning kind.
Something else.
Warm.
Almost... grounding.
My breath caught again.
This wasn’t punishment.
