The first sensation was a dull, aching throb between her legs. Rooh stirred, a soft hiss escaping her lips as the reality of the previous night began to seep back into her consciousness, not as a memory, but as a physical imprint. She yawned, stretching slightly, and then flinched as a sharper pain bloomed on her chest. Looking down, she saw the evidence scattered across her skin like a violent map. Her nipples were red and tender, bearing the faint marks of his teeth. Her chest and the soft skin of her stomach were a canvas of red and purple marks—hickeys, love bites, the passionate, perhaps desperate, souvenirs of their union.

And then it all crashed down on her. The walk in the village. The story of the picnic fees. The suicide attempt. Her father’s monstrous words. Her own broken plea—*"Please take me out of this pain."* She had used him. She had sought a physical escape from a psychological torment, and he had given it to her.