Zeden.
I should have looked away.
I should never care about her the moment Misha pointed at her like she was something worth sweeping out with the trash. That was the simplest choice. The expected choice. The choice a man like me—blind, merciless, unbothered—was supposed to make.
Yet here I was, sitting on the edge of my bed with a jar of ointment in my hand, my fingers brushing over the warm pulse of her wounded knees as she trembled. And I hated—hated—that I could feel every shiver. Hated that the smallest sound she made crawled under my skin like a spider of irritation and something far worse.
She winced when my thumb pressed too close to the cut.
Good. She should wince.
She had disobeyed.
She had embarrassed me in front of my sister.
She had made me speak twice, which was a sin
