This was the moment you had been dreading since Arthur first made the offer. The moment where your bargain would become physical reality. You braced yourself for shame, for revulsion, for your own cowardice, for the possibility that the rest of your life might begin with a flinch you could never take back.
You reached out and lifted the blanket.
And froze.
Not because of anything vulgar. Not because of flesh. Not because of her size.
You froze because both of Vivian’s thighs, her lower abdomen, and the side of her hip were covered in scars.
Some were old, pale and thick, the kind that had healed badly years ago. Some were newer, ridged and angry, crossing each other in cruel ropes of history. On the inside of her left wrist, disappearing under the sleeve, was another cluster. You saw the aftermath of surgeries, yes, but also other damage. Not medical. Not accidental. Damage made by violence, by neglect, by a long war waged against a body that had become an easy target for the world.
The sound that left your mouth was not desire or disgust.
It was shock.
“My God,” you said.
