Rakk keeps his hand on my shoulder the entire time. Not pressing hard. Just there. Present. A statement of ownership for anyone watching.
I want to shove him away. Want to scream and fight and prove that I'm not broken yet. But something stops me.
The way he's sitting. The careful tension in his body. How his thumb moves in tiny, soothing circles against my shoulder when he thinks no one is looking. The muscle jumping in his jaw like he's clenching his teeth.
This is hurting him somehow. This performance he's putting on.
I don't understand it. Don't understand any of this. But I remain still and let him play whatever game he's playing because I'm too tired to fight anymore.
It becomes a pattern.
In private, he gives me space. Leaves food. Doesn't push. Moves around our dwelling like he's trying to take up as little room as possible despite his size.
In public, he's different. Harder. More commanding.
When I flinch away from him during communal duties, his hand catches my wrist and pulls me back with visible firmness. When I argue with his instructions, he cuts me off with a sharp word and a grip on my elbow that looks harsh to observers.
But it never actually hurts.
That's the thing I keep noticing. The thing that makes no sense.
He manhandles me publicly—grabs my arm, my wrist, my shoulder. Demonstrates physical dominance that satisfies theclan's expectations. Creates the image of a male controlling his difficult mate.
Yet there's never any pain. Never bruises despite how rough it looks. Never the deep ache in my joints that I remember from past violence.
I check after each incident. Peel back my sleeves in the privacy of my room and examine where he grabbed me. Nothing. No marks. No tenderness. Just unblemished skin.
It's impossible. I've been handled roughly enough times in my life to know what it feels like, what it leaves behind. This should hurt. By every logical measure, this should be causing damage.
But it doesn't.
And Rakk watches me afterward with something that looks like barely concealed panic. His eyes track my movements whenever I touch the places he grabbed. His jaw clenches when I wince for show—playing the part of cowed mate even though I don't actually feel cowed.
Something is wrong. Something doesn't make sense.
But I can't figure out what.
After another week,Zurkar summons me to the healing chambers. The shaman examines me with clinical efficiency—checking vitals, asking questions about my health, evaluating my recovery since arriving at the settlement.
"Any pain?" His weathered hands press against my ribs where the infection nearly killed me months ago.
"No."
"Headaches? Dizziness?"
"No."
"Bruising?" His pale eyes fix on mine with uncomfortable intensity. "From any source?"
The question feels weighted. Like he's asking about something specific.
"No," I say slowly. "No bruises."
Something flickers across his expression. He dismisses me without further comment.
I'm walking back to Rakk's dwelling when Lola catches up with me. "How was the examination?"
"Fine. Normal." I pause. "Why would Zurkar ask about bruises?"
