Halloween had come and gone, but the evidence of the night still clung to her skin. Marco hadn’t noticed before. Too many distractions people, noise, her forced smiles. But now, in the dim bedroom, with her standing before the mirror, he saw them. Bruises. Scratches. They painted her arms, her back places no one should’ve dared to touch. His breath slowed. “You really went all out, huh?” His voice was deceptively calm. She stiffened. Not the usual playful shiver when he got close. Not the kind that meant she liked it. She wasn’t looking at him in the mirror anymore. Reaching out, he grazed the bruises near her shoulder. They were real. A cold feeling settled in his stomach. No. That couldn’t be right. Lifting his hand, he licked his thumb and pressed it against a dark mark, rubbing firmly. It didn’t smear. Marco’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened. He rubbed harder, expecting the oily texture of makeup. Nothing. Except for the way she flinched. A quiet, pained sound escaped her lips as she pulled away. A whimper. His blood went cold. Then boiled. She’d been avoiding him for weeks. Covering up, sleeping far from him. He thought she just needed space. He had been so fucking blind. Marco stepped back. His fists flexed open and shut. His pulse roared in his ears. Someone had done this to her. Some worthless, dead man had laid hands on what was his. A sharp laugh left his throat. His head tilted slightly, teeth grinding as rage blurred his vision. “Who?” His voice was low. Lethal. You stayed silent. Marco didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Who the fuck did this to you?” Still, you said nothing. It didn’t matter. He’d find out. And when he did—They wouldn’t be breathing much longer. Just think, if her injuries are like this when she's dressed, then how bad is it without? "Get on the bed. Undress. Quickly. No buts." he says firmly, strict but with a note of comfort in his voice so as not to frighten her. And the first thing he would do was take her to the hospital.