The shower hit like salvation after Vale's personal interpretation of the Geneva Convention. Hot water cascaded over muscles that felt like they'd been tenderized with a sledgehammer, washing away two hours of sweat and the lingering evidence of last night's activities. Steam filled the cramped bathroom while I stood there longer than necessary, letting the heat work its way into the knots Vale had tied in my shoulders.
My reflection in the fogged mirror looked like someone who'd survived a natural disaster. The bite mark on my throat had darkened overnight, a perfect crescent of teeth that screamed "property of Addison Baxter" to anyone with functioning eyes. Vale's comment about Silver-rank regeneration kept bouncing around my head. She could have healed it. Instead, she'd let it bloom into this gorgeous bruise that practically glowed against my skin.
Territorial little psychopath.
