Chapter 5: Bruises Like Fingerprints

The bathroom light is unforgiving. It hums, flickering slightly, casting a sickly yellow pallor over my skin.

I lean into the mirror.

There are three marks on my collarbone.

One. Two. Three.

They aren't love bites. They are bruises. Dark, angry purple blooming into ugly yellow at the edges.

Spadino came to my room late last night. After Aureliano.

He didn't ask. He didn't knock. He just opened the unlocked door and claimed his turn. He was frantic, messy, his hands grasping too hard, his teeth scraping against my skin. He treated me like a toy he was trying to break just to see how the pieces fit together.

I unscrew the cap of the cheap concealer I managed to keep from my old life. It’s almost empty.

I dab the beige cream onto the purple skin.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I have to hide them. If Aureliano sees them, he’ll be annoyed. Not because I’m hurt, but because the property is damaged. Damaged goods lose value.

The door opens behind me.

There is no sound. No footstep. Just the sudden displacement of air.

I freeze. My heart hammers against the fresh bruises.

I catch the reflection in the mirror.

Ciro.

He fills the doorway. He’s wearing a grey tank top that clings to his chest, damp with sweat. He smells of iron, bleach, and old violence.

His eyes are fixed on my neck.

I try to pull the collar of my oversized t-shirt up.

"Don't," he rumbles. His voice is gravel grinding on glass.

He steps into the small bathroom. The space instantly feels too small. He sucks the oxygen out of the room just by existing.

He reaches out. His hand is massive, scarred, the knuckles permanently swollen.

He grips my shoulder. His fingers dig in, but not on the bruise. Just beside it.

"Let me see."

It’s not a request.

He pulls the fabric down. He stares at Spadino’s handiwork. His expression doesn't change. No pity. No anger. Just a cold, clinical assessment.

"He's sloppy," Ciro says.

He reaches for the concealer in my hand. He takes it. He crushes the small plastic tube between his thumb and forefinger until it cracks. He drops it into the trash.

"You can't cover that."

"I have to," I whisper. "Aureliano—"

"Aureliano knows Spadino is a reckless child," Ciro interrupts. "He breaks his toys."

He looks me in the eye. His irises are black holes.

"I don't break things, Graziella. I use them."

He spins me around. My back hits the edge of the sink. The porcelain bites into my spine.

He steps between my legs. He is heat and weight and solid muscle.

"Let me show you the difference."

He grips my waist. His hands are rough, calloused sandpaper against my skin. He lifts me onto the counter.

He doesn't kiss me. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, on the opposite side of the bruises.

He inhales. Deeply. Like he’s trying to memorize my scent.

Then he bites.

I gasp, my hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders.

It hurts. It’s a sharp, stinging pain that shoots down my nerve endings. But he doesn't break the skin. He doesn't leave a mark that anyone will see.

He knows exactly how much pressure to apply.

He moves lower. His hands roam over my body, heavy and claiming. He finds the soft skin of my inner thigh. He squeezes.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

It borders on agony. But it’s controlled.

"Spadino leaves marks because he has no control," Ciro growls against my skin. "He wants the world to know he touched you."

He pushes my legs apart. He doesn't undress me fully. He just shoves the fabric out of the way.

He is hard against my thigh.

"I don't need the world to know," he says. "I just need you to know."

He enters me.

One thrust. Deep. Filling.

I throw my head back, a silent scream catching in my throat.

He is bigger than Aureliano. Rougher. But there is a terrifying precision to him. He hits the same spot, over and over, with the rhythmic force of a pile driver.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I count the impacts.

Four. Five. Six.

He watches my face. He watches my eyes roll back. He wants to see the exact moment I stop fighting and start drowning.

He grips my hips. His fingers find the pressure points. He grinds against me, using my body to sharpen his own edges.

"He hurts you because he's weak," Ciro pants. His sweat drips onto my chest. "I hurt you because I'm alive."

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much sensation, too much friction, too much heat.

I bite my lip until I taste copper.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Ciro groans. It sounds like a structure collapsing. He drives into me, burying himself to the hilt, and holds still.

He shudders. His grip on my hips is tight enough to bruise, but he holds me where the bone protects the skin.

He finishes.

He stays there for a long moment, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. His forehead rests against mine.

For a second, just a second, he doesn't feel like a monster. He feels like a man who is drowning, and I am the only driftwood in the ocean.

Then he pulls away.

The cold air rushes back in.

He adjusts his clothes. He looks at the bruises on my neck again. The ones Spadino left.

He reaches out and brushes his thumb over them. His touch is surprisingly gentle now. A contrast that makes me shiver more than the violence did.

"He's gentler than you," I whisper. The lie tastes ash in my mouth. "He leaves marks, but you... you consume."

Ciro stares at me.

"That's not a compliment, Graziella," he says flatly. "That's just the truth in this house of monsters."

He grips my chin. He forces me to look at him. To see the darkness living in his eyes.

"Next time he marks you," Ciro says low, "you come to me."

He runs his thumb over my bottom lip.

"You’re mine to break. You’re mine to fix. You’re not a scratching post for a boy who doesn't know how to hold a knife."

He turns and walks out.

I slide off the counter. My legs are shaking.

I look in the mirror.

Spadino’s bruises are still there. Ugly. Purple.

But I can feel Ciro’s prints on my hips. Invisible. Deep.

I touch the spot where he bit me.

One mark. Two marks.

I’m running out of skin that belongs to me.