His cruel love

SIA worked mechanically-slow, careful, every motion costing her. Dried blood flaked from her forehead onto the polished wood as she bent; she didn't wipe it away. The other maids glanced at her once or twice but said nothing.
Naymar stirred.
his opened-slow, heavy-lidded-then focused.
On her.
Still in the same soaked, ruined clothes from the night before. Hair matted with rain and blood. Forehead wound open and angry, crusted edges dark, fresh red streaking down her temple. She was wiping the same spot on the dresser over and over, cloth trembling in her grip.
His jaw tightened.
He sat up abruptly-sheets pooling at his waist-voice low and dangerous.
"Who said the others can help her?"
The maids froze mid-motion.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing in nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms, the cut on his shoulder stark in the dim light.
"She'll do my work alone," he said, each word clipped. "None will help her. Not a single one of you. Get out."