The Desert's Edge ➣ Gloss/OC

And yet my lips seek out this tender kiss;

Chapter Warning: Non-consensual sex with a client, though I grazed over it as much as I could and didn't get too detailed.

Chapter Fifty Two | And yet my lips seek out this tender kiss;

"No warmth, no breath, shall testify though livest;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To wanny ashes, thy eyes' windows fall

Like death when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, deprived of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death."

4.1, 98-102 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

"Ow! That hurts," Elara grumbles, flinching as Gloss dabs ointment over a scratch that blossoms over her thigh. The grimace she gives him makes him purse his lips.

He doesn't say anything at first. He seems entirely focused on what he's doing. She's got several cuts over her legs and arms, and one on her hip that she hasn't mentioned quite yet. The first moment he had saw the state of her, he'd gone to get the medical kit shoved beneath the bathroom cabinet. She hadn't complained even as he had handed her one of his undershirts and gruffly told her to change. She hadn't even complained when he had tugged her to the side of the bed and sat her down onto it, immediately opening the medical kit without a word.

After a moment, he rocks back on his heels and looks up at her. His eyes hone in on the bruise that wraps around her jaw, and he grits his teeth. The thought of her being with a client is enough to make his blood boil, but the thought of them abusing her like this has him seeing red.

"Hold still," he mutters, and reaches for a bandage. Elara doesn't move when he curls his hand around her thigh and gently puts the bandage over the cut. He doesn't ask where the deep scratch had come from. It's placed in such a way that makes it fairly obvious: this client of hers had dug his fingernails into her and clawed these marks into her skin, probably when he was heaving her legs apart and –

He stops the thought there, because he doesn't want to think it. But even as he tries to wrangle it down, Gloss can't ignore the blatantly obvious signs that pepper her body like a series of red flags.

He sighs and leans forward, resting his forehead on his palm and hovering over her legs. In a tired voice, he mumbles, "Where else?"

Elara swallows and looks away. The sight makes him raise his head to her, his eyes sharp and knowing. He knows that expression. It is guilty, but it shouldn't be. She hadn't gone to those rooms because she wanted to. Hadn't let those clients harm her of her own free will. This is rape, but the word is so despicable that Gloss often tries not to let it rule the delicate nature of this atmosphere. To think that Elara is raped regularly makes him want to die.

"Tell me," he says quietly. He tries to keep his voice gentle, but there is a panicked edge to it that he cannot hide. Not from her.

Elara sighs and turns away from him. "I can do this myself, Gloss. You don't have to – "

"Tell me, Elara," he says again, begs almost. He can't bear this. Sometimes, he thinks the sight of her in pain is worse than any other.

She stares at him, takes in his determined eyes and clenched jaw, and shakily whispers, "I don't want you to see."

Her thighs press together, and he breathes out with a frown.

"Please, Gloss," she says, throat tight with the onset of tears. She feels them start to crowd in on her, and before she can compose herself, one of them runs down her cheek. She hastily wipes it away with a vengeance, but it's too late. He sees it.