Racheal's body was a map of agony.
Her clothes, soaked with sweat and stained with blood, clung to her bruised and cut skin. The fabric dug into her open wounds, each tiny shift sending sharp, electric jolts of pain through her. She couldn't even move without feeling the rawness of the torn flesh beneath her clothing. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, as if even the smallest movement might tear her apart from the inside.
She had run out of tears hours ago, the wells inside her dry and barren.
Penelope's gaze flicked down to Racheal's face again, watching the woman's trembling lips, the flicker of pain.
