Saturday morning arrived with the same quiet knock at nine.

Elena was already downstairs in a high-necked sweater and soft joggers, hair pulled back, the darkest bruises carefully covered. She had checked them twice in the mirror before coming down. The one high on her collarbone still showed a faint edge of purple if the fabric shifted too far. Between her legs she carried the load Marcus had left in her at dawn—slow, thick, deliberate—because he had woken her with his mouth and then his cock and told her to keep it while the housekeeper was in the house. The instruction had settled into her body like another mark.

Rosa...