Rafael awoke to lingering pain, lodged deep in his muscles like a grudge. It wasn't sharp or dramatic, nothing worthy of battlefield glory. It was quieter, relentless, and deeply personal, as if his own body had decided to stage a protest after everything it had been subjected to.
His nape hurt the most.
The ache there pulsed hot and humiliating, drawing every ounce of attention back to the fresh mark beneath his skin. Every heartbeat sent another ripple of awareness through it, reminding him of exactly what had happened and exactly who had done it.
He lifted a hand, fingers moving automatically to assess the damage, and froze when he felt smooth gauze beneath his fingertips. The skin there was clean. Carefully dressed. Medicated. Treated with meticulous care.
He blinked once, stunned into silence, then outrage hit him.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Rafael muttered.
