Phoebe's POV
After the thug spilled everything, Harold finally walked in. He wasn't interested in whether the guy had been completely honest—all his focus was on me. He carefully took my hand, examining it with gentle touches. "Are you exhausted? Does this hurt? It's so red."
My skin marks easily—even Harold's lightest grip can leave bruises.
The whip's handle wasn't exactly sharp, but its rough surface had scraped my palm raw, turning it an angry shade of crimson.
I could see the pain in Harold's eyes as he looked at it. "Next time, I'll get you some equipment that won't damage your hands. You can take all the time you need with them."
His thoughts were written all over his face: 'These tools are designed for tough guys like us. They're completely wrong for someone as soft as you, Phoebe.'
