Chapter 7 · Bruises That Aren't Hers

"Show me your wrists."

Daniel stood in my doorway, not asking. The hall light behind him made his face all shadow.

I pulled my sleeves down. "Get out."

"Leah." He stepped in anyway, shut the door with his heel. "I need to see them."

"You need to leave before I call someone who actually pays rent here."

He moved fast. Caught my left hand before I could shove him back, turned it palm-up, pushed the sleeve to my elbow.

Five bruises. Finger-shaped. Purple-black against my skin, neat as a handprint.

I hadn't noticed them until now.

"Let go," I said.

He didn't. He traced the edge of one with his thumb, barely touching, and I felt the cold sink in through the mark like he'd pressed ice there.

"These aren't from falling," he said. "And they're not from me."

"I know that." I yanked my arm back. "I work twelve-hour shifts. I get grabbed, I get pulled, I bruise easy."

"You bruise when she wants you to." His voice stayed flat. "She's marking you. Showing you what she looked like before she fell."

I stepped back until the bed frame hit my knees. "Mara."

"Mara Cunningham. Yeah.