His eyes were different from his brothers’. Raiden’s were amber fire, burning with aggression; Ace’s were molten silver, shifting like smoke; Nate’s were a sharp, bright green behind his glasses. But Greyson’s…his were blue. Not the warm blue of a summer sky, but the pale, crushing blue of a glacier.
“How are your hands?” he asked. The question was polite, but the tone was purely clinical.
“They’re fine,” I lied, hiding them in my lap. “Sore.”
“Nate applied a regenerative salve,” Greyson explained. “The blistering should be gone by tomorrow. The internal damage to your neural pathways, however, will take longer to heal.”
“Neural pathways?” I squeaked.
“You ran a high-voltage current through a nervous system designed for low-voltage bio-electricity,” Greyson said, as if we were discuss
