Gods, this girl was going to kill me.
I kept working, methodically slicing through the threads, but the closer I got to her spine, the more tense the air between us became. I could feel her tremble under my grip.
My fingers brushed her bare shoulder as I tugged at a stubborn piece of fabric. She stiffened.
I froze, blade hovering. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
Neither of us moved for a heartbeat too long.
“You’re trembling,” I said, low.
“I’m not.”
Defiant. Defensive. But her voice was breathless now, and we both knew it.
I worked faster, the scrape of my blade against stubborn seams loud in the cramped space.
The fabric gave way, sliding lower.
And then her back—
I froze.
Scars.
Some old. Some new, all of them brutal. Faint brands threaded between them, pulsing wrong against her skin like poisoned veins.
Elira must have forgotten for a moment — because when she felt the air on her bare back, she jerked, dragging the torn fabric up over herself.
I felt the shift in her — the way her body went rigid, cold.
“Thanks,” she clipped out, voice flat and hard.
“Elira.” Her name burned in my mouth. Rage boiled through me like wildfire.
She didn’t look at me. “You can leave now,” she snarled — low, desperate — like a wounded thing backing into a corner. "I can handle the rest."
“Elira," I ground out, my voice rough. "Who did that to you?”
A sharp knock rattled the door behind me.
Phoenix’s voice, cautious: “Everything okay in there?”
I swung the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall.
“Don’t, Thorne,” Elira said, her voice cracking. "Please."
I ignored her. “Her back is covered in scars," I said, barely holding the fury out of my voice. "Whip marks. Not all old ones either."
“What do you mean?” Phoenix surged forward, his expression turning grim.
Behind him, Slade bristled, murder flashing in his eyes.
Leo’s usual grin was wiped clean off his face. His jaw hung slack.
“Where?” Leo asked, sharper this time.
“Show them,” I said.
