Alina's POV
His muscles jerked under my touch, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth the moment the ointment hit the raw skin of his back.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my hand trembling slightly. "I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have gone that far. I didn't mean to—"
"Hey." He turned, cutting me off by pressing a cool finger against my lips. A slow, bruising smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I told you already. Don't apologize for this. I asked for it. I wanted this from you."
I looked down at the jar in my hands, my chest tightening. "But why? Why do you crave the pain? It can't just be... for pleasure."
His gaze dropped, his shoulders hunching as he looked at the floor. "Since I was a boy, violence was the only language I was taught. Pain is just how I know I'm alive."
"Do you... do this with the others?" I asked, the question tasting bitter.
