//CLARA//
My body wouldn't stop shaking. Each tremor sent fresh pain radiating through my ribs.
A stabbing reminder of the weight Bartholomew had used to pin me down. It felt as if his knees had left permanent indentations in my lungs.
I stripped the dress off me, letting the ruined silk fall in a heap at my feet. My fingers, stiff and slick with my own blood fumbled with the buttons.
I stood there in my chemise, staring at the map of myself in the mirror.
A dark flower was blooming across my jaw, and my lip was a mess of crusted crimson. I reached back, my fingers playing along the gold chain at my neck.
"He didn't find you," I whispered, kissing the cold ring. "He didn't touch the only thing that matters."
Rage boiled in my stomach. I wanted to scream. I wanted to find him and drive something sharp through his smug, aristocratic face.
But I forced my lungs to expand, forced my jaw to unclench. One breath. Two. The shaking subsided by fractions.
