When Ethan finally left, Huck did not move right away. For a moment, he just stood there, as though the room had been emptied out around him and he had not yet figured out how to step back into it. Then he crossed the distance between us, slowly enough that I had time to take in every inch of the damage.
Up close, it was worse. The lashes had torn his shirt to ribbons. Blood had soaked through what was left of it until the shredded fabric clung to him in dark, wet streaks.
The whip marks carved across his back and shoulders in swollen, crossing welts, some split open, some still bleeding, and thin lines of blood tracked down his spine as he moved.
His face had gone pale with strain, but when he looked at me, the first thing I saw in his eyes was not pain. It was regret.
"I'm sorry, Luc
