Aya stood in front of the mirror, pulling the thin straps of her loose nightgown to the side so she could properly inspect the damage. Two bruises bloomed across her shoulders like dark fingerprints, perfectly spaced to match the grip of a very large, very angry hand. They were already turning that ugly shade of purple-green that promised to look worse before they looked better.
"Geez. He didn't have to hold me that hard," she muttered, pressing one gently.
It surprised her how it didn't even hurt her. Not even at the moment when he had grabbed her that tight. Her enhanced healing had taken care of that, but the marks remained as proof that her husbands truly, genuinely hated her.
She let the fabric fall back into place.
Aya had fully accepted it now. There was likely no redemption arc waiting right around the corner, and there was no secret softness beneath their contempt like she had read in some romance novels. They despised her, and they had every right to.
