Chapter 9 The Bruise

• The shower runs longer than she needs. Steam curls along the cracked tiles, hot enough to peel back the chill that’s settled under her skin since the club.
• Ellerei stands under the spray until her fingertips wrinkle — scrubbing the reek of cheap cologne, stale whiskey, the ghost of his hand on her ribs. But water can’t touch ink. Can’t drown old scars.
• She kills the faucet. Tugs on an old black t-shirt — too thin, too big, hem brushing mid-thigh. Nothing under it but skin. She runs a towel through her hair, watching water drip to the floor.