I’m exhausted and emotional by the time Judge finally returns. And worse yet, I’m not finished. I’m on the last stall, sniffling quietly, when I hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves over the floor. I don’t turn to look. Like a well-trained circus animal, I shovel faster, dreading that he might follow through on his word to toss me in the cellar.

I hear the stall doors closing as he puts the horses away, and my heartbeat quickens when the sound of his boots approaches me from behind. He doesn’t say a word as I race to finish, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back. The undeniable evidence of my scars is on display in the light of morning.

“That’s good enough for today,” he clips the words out with a finality that makes me question if he will still punish me. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t stop thinking about the possibility.

I turn toward him slowly, my head almost too heavy to lift. At the moment, it’s painfully obvious that I don’t have an ounce of pride left. As his eyes rake over me, I’m certain I’ll see some satisfaction as he realizes that, but instead, there’s mounting concern when he notices the rashes and scrapes all over my body.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were allergic?” He frowns.

I glance down at the red welts on my body, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not. My skin is sensitive, and I had no protection from the straw.”

“Come.” He joins me in the stall and grabs me by the arm, but this time, his touch is gentle.

I follow him into the center of the stables, where he unchains me from the large metal arm holding me hostage. After that, he carefully removes my collar and tosses it into the corner, along with the locks. For a second, I consider the possibility of running now, but realistically, I know he’d catch me before I even made it twenty feet. I’m too exhausted. My muscles are aching, and my head is throbbing. And all I want to do is fall into bed and cry.

Judge retrieves the sheet he hung on a hook outside the stables and wraps me up again before scooping me up over his shoulder once more.

“I can walk,” I groan.

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t fight.

We make it to the safety of my room, and I’m hopeful that he’ll just leave me to wallow in my misery, but of course that doesn’t happen. Instead, he leads me into the bathroom and turns on the shower, testing the temperature of the water before he gestures for me.

“Get in.”