KAIREN
The pain was brutal.
It wasn't the deep, weary ache of grief that had taken up residence in my bones after Aisha. It wasn't the sharp, panicked thrum of anxiety that lived behind my ribs.
This was different. It was a clean, brutal, honest pain. It sang in my thighs when I stood up from my desk. It burned across my shoulders when I reached for a high shelf.
It clenched in my core when I laughed, a sore reminder of muscles I'd forgotten I owned.
Every twinge was a footnote to the previous morning's humiliation. And to Viktor's hands on me.
Lying in bed that second night, staring at the ceiling, my body a symphony of protest, I replayed it.
The way his large, calloused palms had settled on my hips, firm and unyielding, correcting my stance.
The heat of that contact had seared through the thin athletic fabric, a brand.
