The steam from the shower had done little to wash away the feeling of his skin on mine or the phantom ache in my bones. I stood in front of the vanity mirror, wrapped in a plush white robe that felt like a shroud. My wet hair clung to my neck, and as I looked down at my cast, I saw the faint smudges of the struggle from an hour ago.
I moved my fingers experimentally. They were stiff, and a dull, pulsing throb radiated from the break up to my elbow. I wonder if he hurt it further when he squeezed it, I thought, a shiver running through me. It had been a warning—a reminder that he could break the rest of me just as easily.
I stepped out into the living room. The tattered silk dress and ripped hosiery were gone, whisked away by some silent ghost of a maid as if the violence had never happen
