JUSTIN – POV
After everything—after the heat, the gasps, the quiet aftermath—she stood.
Naked.
Magnificent.
But the moment flickered and died as she reached for my shirt and tugged it over her trembling frame. Like armor. Like a shield between us.
I didn't look away. Couldn't.
Because I saw something in her eyes then—something that hadn't been there before.
A crack.
And behind it, pain.
Real, shattering pain.
I should've shut up. I should've let the silence hold her a little longer. But I couldn't. The questions had been eating me alive.
Why didn't she tell me?
Why did she leave without a word?
Why did she endure it, and stay silent?
The image of her stabbing that man—her so-called father—with a fork haunted me. That wasn't impulse. That was years of rage.
So I said it.
Quietly, but sharply. "Why didn't you tell me about that bastard? About what he did to you?"
She froze.
