Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t look scared. She looks insulted.
“I don’t need a doctor,” she says.
There it is. That flicker of pride. That refusal to bend. Ayla looks away. Just for a second.
And that’s enough.
My chest tightens—sharp, unwelcome. I don’t name it. I crush it.
“You’re getting checked,” I say firm. “All of you. Right now.”
“I don’t need—”
“I need to know you’re clean before I fuck you,” I spit.
The room goes silent.
Moronov stills. Ayla goes rigid. She doesn’t flinch. She glares.
Good.
Anger I can handle. Anger keeps things simple.
Her mouth opens, then closes again. She says nothing.
She just looks at me like I’m something she stepped in.
“Take off the hoodie or I’ll rip it off.”
I don’t look away.
Moronov studies us both, then nods once. “Ayla. Just the hoodie for now.”
Ayla exhales sharply and pulls it over her head. She’s wearing a plain bra. Nothing pretty. Nothing inviting. I barely register it.
What I see instead stops me cold.
Bruises.
Everywhere.
Yellowed ones. Fresh ones. Deep purples along her ribs, her shoulders, the curve of her arms. Finger-shaped. Boot-shaped. Some faded, some angry and new.
My vision narrows.
I move without thinking, circling her slowly, eyes tracking each mark like a ledger. Her back is worse—dark blooms across her spine, one shoulder blade mottled like it took the brunt of something heavy.
My jaw locks.
Who the fuck would do this to her?
Why?
Moronov’s voice stays calm, professional. “Ayla, I’m going to need you to remove the leggings as well.”
Ayla’s head stays down, but she nods once.
I don’t.
