Inayah’s heart slams maddeningly hard within the walls of her ribcage. Her mouth turns bone dry and she struggles not to flinch nor move whilst astride Sin’s laps.

Salem Raised an eyebrow, drawing her attention from his hair and eyes to the rest of his symmetrically masculine face. His nose held just enough authority without being too big. His chin was square enough to expose every clench of his teeth, and his throat powerful enough to reveal every swallow, rippling with sinew and muscle.

Inayah’s eyes followed his neck, following the contours of his flawless skin until it disappeared beneath the dark grey shirt with the collar unbuttoned. A scar sat just above the bow of his collarbone, one that seemed eerily close to—

“Shall I repeat myself?” Salemsuddenly questioned slight inflexion in his otherwise arctic mellow voice.

Inayah’s eyes flickered to his face then down to her hands which lay uselessly on his lap, encouraging a sheet of hair to obscure the remnants of her burning face. It was not a pleasure, but rather humiliation.

Timidly, she shook her head.

“Words.” He demanded, albeit softly.

Licking her dry lips, Inayah spoke mildly; “No, master.” Yet her hands remained rooted on the spot.

Move, she willed her body.

Hesitantly, after a drawn moment, she finally reached for the hem of her nightgown and carefully began lifting it. The material whispers over her bare thighs, rising higher and higher until her head disappears within, leaving her torso bare to his eyes.

Inayah stilled at that moment, somehow unable to continue for fear of meeting his gaze. Though he had seen her naked before, this felt different. Perhaps because in the Cupid silence, both were sober and hyper-aware of each other, there was no adrenaline of escapism, neither anger from punishment.

Finally, she draws of the dress and begins to lower it over her chest when his hand captures the material, Salemshakes his head once.

Licking her lips, she lets the material drop to the side and sits, fumbling with her hands, plucking at the skin on the side, focusing on the rapid falling of her heart down an endless abyss.

She flinches as he shifts to reach for something on the side table.

Inayah peers at his actions from beneath long lashes, struggling to inhale measured breaths as he places a metallic tin between them. His sapphire blue eyes close an intimate circuit with hers as he carefully twists the tin.

“Where does it hurt?” He silkily inquires as the faint scent of eucalyptus and mint evades her nostrils, burning the back of her eyes.

Inayah blinks hard to prevent crying over the smell and focuses on his hand which holds the container. At his words, she feels a flare of mild irritation; Could he not see the thin Red marks across her chest? Her thighs? Her hands? She works her teeth back and forth, somehow unable to form a proper sentence.

His laps shift beneath her, “If you wish for me to heal you, I’d suggest speaking up.”

Her nostrils flare as she inhales deeply, then licks her teeth. “Everywhere.” Her words are unintentionally low, but he hears them.

“You’re quite fragile,” his voice holds certain iciness to it, a critique for not being able to accept his punishment, “I have had pets before who could take more than a simple whipping and still sleep fine.”

Inayah is unsure of whether she should reply or not. She focuses on his slender strong fingers which scoop a generous amount of the oil and lifts it to her chest. Her breath catches as one finger presses at the centre of her breastbone, wistfully trailing down the centre to her navel, dipping in thoughtfully before flicking out.

Her face flames at the deep, mirthful chuckle he elicits, perhaps amused by her reaction.

Inayah grits her teeth, struggling to keep a straight face when his warm palm flattens over her abdomen, skimming back up the same path, stopping right over her neck.

His hand curls possessively, but there is no pressure. Salem smooths the ointment over her shoulders then collarbones, tracing the faint bows that dip at the centre. Her skin is cool beneath his, and he feels her traitorous pulse giving way to each touch of his.

He cups her breast in one hand, eliciting a soft shuddering inhale from his slave but she does not move. His gaze is liquid and brilliant as it captures hers, willing her to look away as he gently kneads the ointment onto her breast.

When she does not, he brushes the pad of his thumb over her nipple and she jerks slightly.

Salem smiles sardonically but he does not offer words of condolences, simply moving onto the other breast, soothing the slight scars with ointment until her torso glows with oil.

For a moment, he stills to partially admire the girl’s petite frame. The slight pudge of her lower stomach, not completely flat, scars from a playful past littered to and fro and what seemed like a burn mark above her left ribcage.

“What happened.” He questioned, wistfully dragging a finger over the scar. She shudders beneath his illicit touch but does not move.

Inayah suddenly feels the need to clothe herself, hide each story from his prying vicious eyes. He does not deserve to know her history. Hurting her in such ways than acting more or less like the innocent.

She inhales as his hands settle on either of her thighs, gently yet firmly kneading her flesh back and forth with the oil, his thumb dip along her inner thigh, “My brother burned me.”

“Why.”

Her eyes drop to his hands, warily watching as they edge higher only to slide back to her knees, cupping them possessively before releasing and repeating the process.

“We were fighting,” she tries to recall, chewing on the flesh of her inner cheek. “I pushed him into father’s pigsty and he landed on his face,” the corner of her mouth twitches but only slightly.

She fixes her expression, steeling it to that of nonchalance. “He got his revenge by burning me with a poker.”

His thumbs edge further inward, “Interesting.” The silence that pervades irks Inayah to no end, she feels tensed now, realizing that he had stopped working on the ointment on her but simply caressed her thighs.

Fear leaps into her throat as the tips of his finger brushes her underwear, the faint gesture knowing. She grows completely still, suddenly afraid to lift her eyes and see his expression, though tempting.

Salem’s hands withdraw. “Rise.”

Obediently she does, standing between his legs while carefully turning to offer her backside. His large palms, warm as the sun, brace against her spine, gently rubbing vertically over each sore.

She winced slightly but makes no sound, not when they travel down her backside, along the back of her thighs and calves. She feels his breath flutter along her lower spine.

“Dimples.” He states casually and she paused, lost in the statement before realizing.

“Oh,” she begins awkwardly, scratching her wrists.

His hands slide up between her thighs before releasing right before reaching her core. Inayah steps forward when she feels him begin to rise, creating ample distance, and her hands begin to rise automatically to her chest only to still as he plucks the dress from the floor and gestures her forward with a simple curl of his fingers.

His actions do not register until the last moment as he steps towards her with the gown.

Inayah uneasily raises her arms as the dress slips over her head and flows down her body with ease, stopping short of her knees. His hands settle on her shoulders, slowly steering her towards the vanity table.

Each step brings a bout of nervousness forth, she wants to ask what he’s doing but words fail and the thought of being punished after healing seemed painful.

Salem's hand cards through her curls briefly then drop to pick a brush. Carefully, he collects her hair and begins to brush through it. Inayah stares at his reflection in the mirror, slightly stunned. No man had ever brushed her hair, let alone her father or Oscar.

Yet here he did it. Neatly flattening each careless strand up into a ponytail. His sleeve dropped, revealing two dark red hair ties, which he used to tie.

“Your hair will remain in a ponytail.” He states smoothly.

To which she nods, obediently.