"Oh, it's nothing," Ophelia said.
Isabella's eyes snapped up to her face so fast even Glimora flinched. "Nothing?" Isabella scolded, voice sharp as a slap to a lazy morning. "You're clearly injured. How did you get such an injury all over your hands? For just being away from me for such a short time."
Ophelia shook her head hard, curls bouncing, clutching the flower-and-thorn bracelet like it might run away. "No, no, no need to worry. They are already healed, and soon the scars will disappear. And I'll be better. I'm no longer weak like before. I am stronger now."
Isabella froze.
Her gaze dropped to those hands—thin white lines crossing knuckles and wrist, faint pink at the edges where new skin was knitting. The marks were small, yes, but there were many. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Kian's forearm where it circled her waist. He felt it; his thumb pressed back once in quiet answer.
And that was when she realized it. The reason. The stupid, sweet, infuriating reason.
