Stevie
The antiseptic smell of the infirmary burns my nose, sharp and clean in a way that makes me feel dirtier just sitting here. My arm throbs as the healer presses a damp cloth against the bite wound, and I grit my teeth.
“Hold still,” she says, voice soft but firm.
I do, even though every instinct in me screams to yank my arm back and snarl. I hate feeling weak. Hate needing someone to fix me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jace leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, frown carved deep into his face.
He’s been standing there like a damn statue since I walked in, silent but heavy. I can feel his mood like a weight in the room—disapproval, anger, something else I can’t quite name.
The healer mutters something about “foreign material,” then uses tweezers to pull a sma
