The atmosphere inside the cramped apartment was heavy with the sterile scent of iodine and the muffled sounds of stifled sobs. Sienna Flynn sat on the edge of the worn sofa, her hands trembling as she pressed a cool, antiseptic-soaked cotton ball against the angry red welts on Carvel’s face. Every time the cotton touched the broken skin, Sienna felt a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision.
"Does it sting a lot, Mom?" Sienna whispered, her voice thick with a mixture of grief and protective fury.
Carvel, whose fiery spirit had been temporarily dampened by the traumatic events at the Federal Bank, managed a weak, weary smile. She reached up with a bruised hand to brush a stray tear from her daughter’s cheek. "I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s just a few scratches. Don’t waste your tears on an ol
