From a welcoming heat, it becomes an unbearable inferno as panic strikes in my breast, causing my heart to erupt into an unsteady rhythm. Dragging myself on my knees, I reach the controls of the shower after what feels like an eternity, turning the water off and taking a deep, anxious breath into my lungs.

"Soon," I whisper to myself.

I take a moment to settle my nerves before I turn on the water again, this time washing my body thoroughly. As my hands move around the planes of my chest, my eyes widen in surprise when I can't feel any of the old scars or indentations.

For as long as I can remember, my body has been a mosaic of scars, some gotten through beatings and abuse, others through the backbreaking labor I was subjected to.

My fingers trail up my shoulder, feeling for the small pucker of skin that had formed after my gunshot wound had healed five years ago. The skin is smooth and blemish-free.

I search lower on my back for the lashings I'd gotten when I disobeyed the orders of the master of the house, but even those have disappeared—as if they'd never been there in the first place.

Had that ambrosia-infused drink healed all of this? Had it erased even my deepest scars?

Does that mean that my marks...?

Quickly rinsing myself, I turn off the shower and step out. I plant myself firmly in front of the mirror, almost afraid to gaze at my new self but excited to see those marks removed nonetheless.

I wipe the steam off the mirror and slowly regard myself, a crushing disappointment settling in my chest as I spot the black lines staining my skin.

All other scars are absent.

All but the worst of them—these marks that have been the bane of my existence since the day I'd gotten them when I was sixteen and about to become the mistress of El Señor of the hacienda. In a bout of madness, I'd fought back, preferring death over having my body violated in that manner. Against all odds, I'd survived. But for my rebellion, I'd been marked for life.

Outcast. Pariah. Cursed.

Although I'd been saved from that ignominy, I'd been sentenced to a life of servitude and perpetual labor.

"You should never be ashamed of these, Luce," Nikki would tell me whenever I became hung up on them. "They're not a punishment. They're a mark of bravery. You fought and you won."

I would smile at him and nod, the rational part of me understanding his reasoning, but the other side of me, the hurt and belittled one, saw it as a way for El Señor to control me for the entirety of my life. The marks weren't ephemeral like an action or a word. They were always there, etched into my skin, proof of my lack of agency.

I release a shaky breath, my lashes misted with tears.