He leaned over and turned on the bath, checking the temperature. After he was satisfied, he turned back to me and began to peel off what was left of my clothes. His face twisted into an unreadable expression as my skin became exposed, small scratches and forming bruises becoming apparent. "Oh, Brie," he choked out, his fingers sliding over my skin slowly. "What did he do to you?" he said quietly, tossing the last article of clothing to the ground. The bruises began at my thighs, small ones from his fingertips digging into me. They curved up to my stomach, my breast, then my shoulders and arms. "He didn't rape me; if that's what you're asking," I said quietly, my voice hard. Thankfully, it hadn't gotten that far. But what had happened I wouldn't forget easily. I didn't know how to get past these last few weeks, or why I had so willingly put myself in the line of fire. I should have never agreed to help him. But he couldn't have known it would result in this; neither of us could have.
