Page 45 of The Wishing Game

I take a moment to settle my nerves before I turn on the water again, this time washing my body thoroughly. As my hands move around the planes of my chest, my eyes widen in surprise when I can't feel any of the old scars or indentations.

For as long as I can remember, my body has been a mosaic of scars, some gotten through beatings and abuse, others through the backbreaking labor I was subjected to.

My fingers trail up my shoulder, feeling for the small pucker of skin that had formed after my gunshot wound had healed five years ago. The skin is smooth and blemish-free.

I search lower on my back for the lashings I'd gotten when I disobeyed the orders of the master of the house, but even those have disappeared—as if they'd never been there in the first place.

Had that ambrosia-infused drink healed all of this? Had it erased even my deepest scars?

Does that mean that my marks...?

Quickly rinsing myself, I turn off the shower and step out. I plant myself firmly in front of the mirror, almost afraid to gaze at my new self but excited to see those marks removed nonetheless.

I wipe the steam off the mirror and slowly regard myself, a crushing disappointment settling in my chest as I spot the black lines staining my skin.

All other scars are absent.

All but the worst of them—these marks that have been the bane of my existence since the day I'd gotten them when I was sixteen and about to become the mistress of El Señor of the hacienda. In a bout of madness, I'd fought back, preferring death over having my body violated in that manner. Against all odds, I'd survived. But for my rebellion, I'd been marked for life.

Outcast. Pariah. Cursed.

Although I'd been saved from that ignominy, I'd been sentenced to a life of servitude and perpetual labor.

"You should never be ashamed of these, Luce," Nikki would tell me whenever I became hung up on them. "They're not a punishment. They're a mark of bravery. You fought and you won."

I would smile at him and nod, the rational part of me understanding his reasoning, but the other side of me, the hurt and belittled one, saw it as a way for El Señor to control me for the entirety of my life. The marks weren't ephemeral like an action or a word. They were always there, etched into my skin, proof of my lack of agency.

I release a shaky breath, my lashes misted with tears.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror for what feels like an eternity, my mind going in circles as I try to decipher why all of my other scars and injuries went away but these marks remained.

Could it be that Sergio truly had connections to the divine? Is that why these won't go away? Because they're not seared in my flesh, but in my soul?

The thought makes my legs tremble, and I grasp onto the sink to keep myself from falling.

He's taken so much from me already...to take even more?

Pain stabs in my chest as I choke a sob.

"Maldito perro," I rasp, my voice thick and filled with pain. "¡Espero que te pudras en el infierno!"

Too bad he died before I could take all my frustrations out on him. If there's one regret I have, it's that I wasn't there to see him suffer as he drew his last breath. That will forever haunt me as my hatred for him grows instead of abating.

I trail a finger down my naked body, following the sinuous curves of the black markings etched on my flesh. A shiver goes down my back just as a gust of wind blows in my direction.

My head snaps to the side, but the bathroom door is closed. No window in sight.

I blink, my breathing becoming more erratic.

It's just my imagination.

Turning, I note the mirror is once more fogged up. My brows bunch together in a frown as I take a towel and wipe it again. Yet as the contour of my form becomes visible in the mirror, so does something else.

My mouth opens on a gasp.

It's barely perceptible, but it's there.

The hairs on my back stand up as a shadowy form sways lightly in the air just behind me, smoke-like fog surrounding me like an outline.

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