A week later, both of them were, according to the physicians, 'significantly improved,' which Dean had learned was medical language for no longer actively falling apart in front of witnesses.
It was, in his opinion, a slanderously optimistic phrase.
Yes, nothing was broken now.
Yes, the experimental cloned healing pheromones had worked with a level of efficiency that made several departments behave as though they had personally discovered divinity in a sterile container. The fractured rib had knit. The shoulder no longer felt like an ideological disagreement held together by pain and resentment. The bruising at his throat had faded from violent to merely offensive. Arion's collarbone had sealed cleanly. The cuts had closed. The deep bruising had thinned. Even the line under his jaw had faded into something subtle enough that lesser people might miss it.
Dean did not miss it.
Nor did he miss the fact that 'recovered' did not mean 'released.'
They were still under supervision.
