I stood under the spray with my eyes closed, letting the water run over the scratch marks on my back, the bite on my hip, the hickey on my collarbone that Belle had left like a territorial flag. The sting felt good. The warmth felt better. But what felt best was the number floating in the corner of my vision.
Eighteen days. Six hours. Forty-three minutes.
Two weeks ago, I'd been running on fumes. Twelve hours here, eight hours there, scraping by on Bronze-tier essence and desperation. Now I had a full vault, four women who'd chosen me with their eyes open, and a captain who'd kissed me in a tree line like I was oxygen and she'd been drowning.
The graft hummed against my sternum, warm and satisfied. Eight rings burned in the back of my skull. Seven steady, one flickering at the edge where Blair Davenport sat in her uncertainty, unable to decide what she wanted from me.
