Friday morning brought a harsh light to the master bathroom of the Blackwood estate.
Damon stood before the double vanity mirror, his large hands gripping the porcelain edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles ached. He had barely slept. Every time he had closed his eyes, his mind had replayed the events in the office.
He tilted his head to the right, wincing as the skin pulled tight.
The mark had darkened overnight. What had been angry red was now a galaxy of plum, purple, and midnight blue sitting right over his pulse point.
"Stress rash," Damon muttered to his reflection, testing the lie aloud in the quiet bathroom. "It's just a stress rash. Eczema flare-up."
He frowned. It didn't look like a rash. It looked exactly like what it was.
