Anabel.
I dipped the clean cloth into the bowl again, watching the water ripple faintly before I lifted it out. I wrung it slowly, twisting the fabric between my fingers until the excess water dripped back into the bowl in soft, steady drops. Then I pressed it carefully against the bruise forming along Noah's shoulder.
The skin there was already darkening and swollen.
He didn't flinch, not even a slight tightening of his jaw, not a sharp intake of breath. Nothing.
That was what annoyed me the most.
He just sat there quietly on the edge of the bed, his shirt discarded beside him, exposing the faint scrapes that marked his skin from the fall. Thin red lines traced across his arm and shoulder, some already drying, others still tender. His breathing was steady now, controlled, measured.
But I knew better.
I had seen him this morning.
And that image refused to leave my mind.
