Ezra stands there staring at the injuries on my torso like his brain cannot process what his eyes are telling him, and for once he does not look like an Alpha or a predator or a man in control.
He just looks stunned.
His gaze drags slowly over the bruises mapped across my ribs, the darker marks near my hip, the thin scabbed edges where skin has split and tried to heal, and something ugly twists across his face as realization finally settles in.
“You did this,” I say quietly, because I want him to hear it, and because I want him to understand that I am not softening it or protecting him anymore.
He shakes his head once, slow and disbelieving.
“No,” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t touch you.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh.
“It happens every time you have s*x with Gianna,” I tell him, an
