Page 39 of Vendetta Crown

"I want to," I insist. "I need to."

Ruslan nods, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against my knuckles. "I'll be right here next to you the entire time. If it gets too much, just say the word and we stop. Immediately."

The tenderness in his voice nearly breaks me. I blink back tears, refusing to cry before we even begin.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He leads me to a chair positioned in front of the backdrop, his hand warm and steady against the small of my back. Hannah follows, positioning herself just off to the side where I can see her. The minutes tick by slowly as the crew finishes their preparations.

Then the door opens again, and the photographer walks in.

She's a slight woman with platinum blonde hair. Every step she takes carries a quiet confidence that seems misplaced against the heaviness in the room.

Her eyes flick over my bruised face, and I catch the briefest flash of sympathy before she masks it with professionalism.

"Hello, Aurora." She extends her hand. "I'm Natalie. Let's make this as quick and painless as possible, okay?"

I nod, my throat too tight for words.

Ruslan's gaze hardens as he turns to the assistants hovering near the equipment.

"Leave." His voice carries that unmistakable edge of command.

They exit without protest, and close the door behind them.

"Thank you," Natalie murmurs, adjusting a light. "I think we'll get more honest photographs with fewer eyes in the room." She steps back, camera in hand. "Whenever you're ready, Aurora."

My fingers tremble as I reach for the first button of my blouse. I focus on Ruslan's steady presence, on his golden eyes watching me with a mixture of tenderness and rage.

Not at me, but for what was done to me.

Button by button, I reveal myself. The cool air feathers my skin as the fabric falls away.

Hannah's sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence.

"Oh my God," she whispers.

The full map of violence is laid bare. Finger-shaped bruises on my hips and thighs, the bite mark on my shoulder, the larger bruise blooming across my ribs and breasts. Each mark tells the story of one terrifying moment after another in Vegas.

Yet despite the exposure, I feel strangely detached, like I'm floating somewhere above my body.

I stare straight ahead, my eyes locked with Ruslan's. The simmering anger in his gaze grounds me, reminds me why we're doing this.

"Turn slightly to the right, please," Natalie instructs quietly.

The camera rises, and my stomach clenches with instinctive panic. My breathing quickens.

Click.

The sound echoes like a gunshot in the hushed room.

Click. Click. Click.

"Chin up a bit. Now turn to show me the bite mark on your shoulder."

I follow instructions mechanically, a puppet on strings. Quarter turn. Half turn. Profile. Back. Each position showcasing a different horror.

The methodical rhythm of the shoot carries me along until Natalie lowers her camera, reviewing the images on her screen.

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