“You see the dark band along your femur?” The witch pointed to a jagged line like forked lightning through Bryce’s thigh. “That’s the venom. Every time you run or walk too long, it creeps into the surrounding area and hurts you.” She pointed to a white area above it. “That’s all scar tissue. I need to cut through it first, but that should be fast. The extraction is what might take a while.”
Bryce tried to hide her trembling as she nodded. She’d already signed half a dozen waivers.
Hunt sat in the chair, watching.
“Right,” the witch said, washing her hands again. “Change into a gown, and we can begin.” She reached for the metal cabinet near Hunt, and Bryce removed her shorts. Her shirt.
Hunt looked away, and the witch helped Bryce step into a light cotton shift, tying it at the back for her.
“Your tattoo is lovely,” the medwitch said. “I don’t recognize the alphabet, though—what does it say?”
Bryce could still feel every needle prick that had made the scrolling lines of text on her back. “Through love, all is possible. Basically: my best friend and I will never be parted.”
A hum of approval as the medwitch looked between Bryce and Hunt. “You two have such a powerful bond.” Bryce didn’t bother to correct her assumption that the tattoo was about Hunt. The tattoo that Danika had drunkenly insisted they get one night, claiming that putting the vow of eternal friendship in another language would make it less cheesy.
Hunt turned back to them, and the witch asked him, “Does the halo hurt you?”
“Only when it went on.”
“What witch inked it?”
“Some imperial hag,” Hunt said through his teeth. “One of the Old Ones.”
The witch’s face tightened. “It is a darker aspect of our work—that we bind individuals through the halo. It should be halted entirely.”
He threw her a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Want to take it off for me?”
The witch went wholly still, and Bryce’s breath caught in her throat. “What would you do if I did?” the witch asked softly, her dark eyes glimmering with interest—and ancient power. “Would you punish those who have held you captive?”
Bryce opened her mouth to warn them that this was a dangerous conversation, but Hunt thankfully said, “I’m not here to talk about my tattoo.”
It lay in his eyes, though—his answer. The confirmation. Yes, he’d kill the people who’d done this. The witch inclined her head slightly, as if she saw that answer.
She turned back to Bryce and patted the examination table. “Very well. Lie on your back, Miss Quinlan.”
Bryce began shaking as she obeyed. As the witch strapped down her upper body, then her legs, and adjusted the arm of the surgical light. A cart rattled as the witch hauled over a tray of various gleaming silver instruments, cotton pads, and an empty glass vial.
“I’m going to numb you first,” the witch said, and then a needle was in her gloved hands.
Bryce shook harder.
“Deep breaths,” the witch said, tapping the air bubbles from the needle.
A chair scraped, and then a warm, calloused hand wrapped around Bryce’s.
Hunt’s eyes locked on hers. “Deep breath, Bryce.”
She sucked one in. The needle sank into her thigh, its prick drawing tears. She squeezed Hunt’s hand hard enough to feel bones grinding. He didn’t so much as flinch.
The pain swiftly faded, numbness tingling over her leg. Deep inside it.
“Do you feel this?” the witch asked.
“Feel what?”
“Good,” the witch declared. “I’m starting now. I can put up a little curtain if you—”
“No,” Bryce gritted out. “Just do it.”
No delays. No waiting.
She saw the witch lift the scalpel, and then a slight, firm pressure pushed against her leg. Bryce shook again, blasting a breath through her clenched teeth.
“Steady now,” the witch said. “I’m cutting through the scar tissue.”
Hunt’s dark eyes held hers, and she forced herself to think of him instead of her leg. He had been there that night. In the alley.
The memory surfaced, the fog of pain and terror and grief clearing slightly. Strong, warm hands gripping her. Just as he held her hand now. A voice speaking to her. Then utter stillness, as if his voice had been a bell. And then those strong, warm hands on her thigh, holding her as she sobbed and screamed.
I’ve got you, he’d said over and over. I’ve got you.