I moved. Training took over. I won't be like Delia. I won't be broken.
I tested the water with my elbow. I poured in Hattie's lavender and rosemary oils. The steam smelled of herbs, but the tension remained. Every movement was deliberate. Not submission—professionalism. It was my only armor.
I started with his back, his shoulders. The skin was hot, taut. Strong as a bull, yet stiff in a way that wasn't pride—it was pain. Deep, ingrained pain.
His gaze never left me. He waited for a tremor, for a mistake, for fear.
I didn't give it to him.
When I finished with his torso, only one thing remained.
A heavy linen sheet.
It covered his legs and hips, tied tightly at the waist. As I moved my hands to the knot, his body stiffened. A hiss escaped his throat. "Enough."
I stopped.
"Look at me," he ordered. His voice was tense, naked.
His face was pale. Fear in his eyes. Real fear.
"I'm not looking for your pity," he hissed. "If you tell anyone…"
"I don't know how to give pity," I replied calmly. "I only know how to care for a body. And this cloth must be removed."
He stared for a long time. Finally, he nodded.
"Do it."
My hands didn't tremble.
I untied the knot.
The cloth sank into the water.
I stopped breathing.
They weren't legs.
They were a map of violence.
Coin-shaped burns. Blade scars. Dozens of deep punctures—like metal spikes. Even. Deliberate.
It wasn't an accident.
It was torture.
He looked at me, waiting for disgust. For pity. For revulsion.
He got none of them.
I'd seen cruelty before. But this was different. Systematic. Planned.
He looked up.
His armor fell away completely.
"I was seventeen," he whispered.
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