Then he stopped.

His eyes had caught another faint reddish mark higher along her upper thigh.

The stillness between them deepened.

His hand moved instinctively toward the hem of her robe but stopped midway, suspended in the thick, fragile silence.

“Can I lift it?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, Calvin but it’s just a minor scratch,” Cleopatra replied.

“I decide what is a minor scratch,” Calvin said in a low voice.

He lifted the rope slightly higher.

A deeper reddish scar appeared just above her knee.

“Enough. Get dressed now,” he said, his tone carrying quiet finality, leaving no space for argument.

The car screeched into the hospital parking lot, the...