I could endure such things.
Physical pain no longer unsettled me as it once had.
Bruises faded. Bones repaired. I had survived worse than anything a man like him could do with brute force.
But if he attempted something beyond that—
If he tried to touch me the way men like him always did—like my body was something to take, to test, to own—
I would rather die.
A violent spasm seized my stomach, as though some unseen hand had twisted a dagger deep within.
Because some things didn’t leave scars you could see.
Some things stayed buried under your skin, rotting quietly, waiting for the smallest trigger to drag you back into that dark, suffocating place you fought so hard to escape.
I had buried those memories.
Locked them away.
I would not let him dig them out.
Not again. Not ever.
Bruno’s rough, iron grip snapped beneath my chin.
I gasped sharply as he forced my head upward, the pressure immediate and bruising, his fingers digging in like iron.
My entire body went rigid.
Bruno’s breath hit me a second later—damp, and foul. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Something bitter underneath it all.
It turned my stomach so violently I had to fight not to gag.
“You truly are a fascinating creature, aren’t you?” he said, his voice low and mocking, amusement curling through every word. “A prodigiously capable blind woman—that’s what they call you.”
His thumb pressed harder against my jaw, tilting my face as if he expected my eyes to meet his.
As if I could see him.
As if I needed to.
“I’ve heard all the stories,” he went on, his tone shifting into something almost conversational—like this was entertainment. “The blind intern who works twice as hard as everyone else. Never complains. Never asks for help.”
His grip loosened suddenly, and I sucked in a quiet breath as he let go.
But the relief didn’t last.
I heard it then—the slow, deliberate sound of his shoes against the floor as he began to circle me.
One step.
Then another.
Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world.
