As always, she studies her bruises in the bathtub, during her bubble bath. With the door locked. For safety. It’s right now that she’s at her most vulnerable, where she must be extra cautious—of him.

There’s a new scratch on her face, jagged like her father’s fingernails tend to be. It bled for a while, but now it’s just an angry red line down her cheek, matching the three on her left shoulder blade. It had been her fault anyway. She’d been late fixing his breakfast.

There’s also a large oblong bruise along the righthand side of her ribcage, about the size of a man’s foot. That one keeps getting renewed, so it’s consistently an ugly purplish-black ringed with a flickering shade of yellow green, like his eyes. Those wide, intelligent eyes, hinted with a street-fighter’s mentality.

The other wounds are nothing new. Scratches on her arms and legs, black-and-blue marks on her feet. He’d broken her foot once, by stepping on it.

But it’s irresponsible to just lie in the tub, so she stands and towels off, stretching out the aches he causes her. She hears him walking down the hallway, toes clicking, and he complains at the door while she hurries into her clothes. And steel-toed workboots.

“Rrrowr,” he growls.

“Don't worry, Stripes, I’m coming.”

She opens the door, and pats her pet tiger on the head, avoiding his disarming fang-filled grin. “C’mon, big guy, let’s get you some lunch.”