Patricia's POV...
"Robert." The name was a whisper, stripped of all its earlier venom. "My hand hurts."
I didn't even know when that slipped out. It just… fell from my lips, a small, pathetic truth I'd been holding onto for too long.
I lifted it. A useless, broken offering. Showed him.
The skin across my knuckles was shredded. Raw meat and angry purple welts where the bones had ground against his. In one place, a deep gash wept a slow, steady trickle of blood. The swelling had already begun, turning my hand into a clumsy, throbbing club. My fingers wouldn't straighten all the way. They just… curled. Locked in a permanent, semi-clenched state. Like they were still holding the shape of a fist.
Like they were still holding him.
He looked at my hand. A long, silent study. Then his gaze lifted to my face, searching for something. Then back to my hand, as if the sight of my injury was a physical blow to him. His own face, still flushed and marked from my assault.
