"Oh, there you are! I've been looking for you! Why did you run away, create such a fuss, and delay the affairs of the soldiers?"
A man in his early twenties, with unruly curls and sweat glistening on his forehead, emerged from a narrow alley. His breath was ragged, as if he'd run a great distance. His arm draped over the young woman's shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh.
To the onlookers, the gesture might have seemed affectionate. But Lara saw the truth—the tight grip, the sharp flinch of pain, the way the woman's eyes darted, seeking escape.
"Sirs, I deeply apologize for my wife's behavior." The man's voice was laced with an artificial charm, but the smugness beneath it was unmistakable. "She was flirting with our neighbor, and in my jealousy, I struck her. Of course, I might have hit her too hard, and she ran off in a tantrum. But can you blame me? A man can't be expected to tolerate other men lusting after his beautiful wife, can he?"
