Iris's POV

Morning light cut across the kitchen floor when I came downstairs.

My father was already at the table with coffee and his tablet, the same way he always was after a trip. The skin of my inner thighs felt tight and oversensitive where his teeth and hands had been, the high-neck shirt dragged across the scabbed bites on my shoulders with every small movement of my arms, when I reached for the bread my lower belly gave a faint, unfamiliar twitch.

“You’re up,” he said, looking over. “How's the fever? It finally break?"

“Yeah.” I kept my voice even even though my throat still felt scraped raw. “Mostly...