I tell myself that I am inspecting for scars. That’s all this is.

And I find the first one. Just around the curve of her hip on her pelvic bone. As if the belt —and I know it was a belt—wrapped around and the buckle dug hard into flesh. It was wielded in anger. Uncontrolled. I know this, too. My jaw tightens as I reach down to touch it, scar tissue bumpy beneath my thumb.

The fronts of her legs are mostly unblemished, apart from two smaller marks like that at her hip from where the belt wrapped around when it struck.

Who did this to her?

I run my hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, knee, her shin. I move around the bed and take one foot in my hands, and when I see the underside of it, every muscle in my body tenses. And that rumbling from earlier, it’s different now. Loud and possessive and enraged.

Both feet are heavily scarred. The bottoms whipped ruthlessly.

I hold them both, wanting to warm them. Heal them. They’re small for her height, the nails polished to perfection in her signature red. Flawless on one side. Damaged on the other. Like her.

“What are you doing?” Mercedes asks. I look up to find her staring at me, eyes wide with horror. She comes up onto her elbows. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, tugging her feet from my grasp.

I allow her to pull away and study her face. Her eyes. There she is, inside them. A broken girl.

“Who did this to you?”

She swallows hard, eyes misting, and sits up. She draws the duvet onto her lap, over her breasts. “Like I said last night, it’s none of your business.”

“Santiago?” I ask, not wanting to. It can’t be, but what if I’m wrong? I’ll kill him. I’ll have to.

“No. God! Santi would never—” Her voice breaks, and it takes her a moment to compose herself and meet my eyes again. And when she does, hers are hard. Layers and layers of impenetrable obsidian. “What the hell do you think you’re doing by stripping me when I’m passed out?”

Inspecting you and checking for scars sounds weak.

I wanted to see your pussy one more time is closer to the truth.

The image of her earlier this morning when I took the crop to her floats back into memory. Her hips trapped by my thighs. Her ass positioned to take my punishment. The reddening marks. Her most secret parts on display for me. For me.

Not. For. You.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“Answer my fucking question because I’m damn sure my brother would not have okayed this!”

“Does he know about the scars?” I ask, stopping that line of questioning because, honestly, she’s right.

She falters. Hugs her arms a little closer.

“Does he?”