Fortunately, as he lay back down, Jonathan’s lips brushed against her fingertips, and he took the fever reducer into his mouth.
Stephanie quickly brought a glass of water to his lips.
She stood up and reached for his shirt, but Jonathan grabbed her wrist. “You can go. I’ll do it myself.”
“Most of the wounds are on your back. How are you going to manage that yourself?” Stephanie knew what he was thinking—it was nothing more than masculine pride.
A man in his late twenties, beaten to this state by his own father; it must be a blow to his ego.
Yes, Stephanie was certain York was behind this. Who else in the Vasquez family would have the audacity to lay a hand on Jonathan, let alone lock him up?
The answer seemed obvious.
Cecilia had told her long ago that York used to beat Jonathan when he was drunk, blaming him for his first wife’s death.
On the anniversary of her death, when emotions were already raw, York would have even more reason to lash out.
Stephanie ignored him. The shirt was ruined anyway. She simply grabbed the fabric and tore it open.
The buttons scattered. Even though she had been prepared, the sight of Jonathan’s injuries still made her gasp in shock. It was a horrifying sight.
Most of the wounds were on his back, inflicted by a belt. It was a brutal tapestry of welts and dried blood; there wasn't an inch of undamaged skin.
Perhaps out of shock, Stephanie’s eyes grew moist. She had been spoiled by her family, raised by a doting father who adored her. She couldn’t imagine a father capable of this.
Her brow furrowed even deeper. “Does it hurt?”
Jonathan’s voice was low and hoarse, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “So eager to rip my clothes off. Can't wait to have your way with me?”
This man. Injured like this, and he was still in the mood for jokes.
Stephanie said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line as she disinfected his wounds and carefully wrapped them with bandages.


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