For a moment, I thought time had stopped.
The only sound in the room was the faint, uneven rhythm of my breathing and the soft thud of the shawl as it hit the floor. Damian’s hand was still suspended midair, his eyes locked on my neck like the sight of it hurt him.
He didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating, until his voice broke it, low, rough, and shaking with something that sounded a lot like restrained fury.
“Who did that to you?”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could feel my pulse hammering beneath the marks, loud enough that I thought he might hear it. His tone wasn’t demanding, just… edged. Like he was holding himself back from breaking something.
“Autumn,” he said again, softer this time, but his jaw tightened. “Who hurt you?”
I shook
