I surfaced in waves of agony. The scent of disinfectants and stale concrete was the first thing that hit me, followed by a dull, throbbing ache that spanned from my temples to my pelvis. The movement and the blow had accelerated everything. I was past the point of practice; this was real labor.
I was lying on a thin, uncomfortable cot. The room was small, windowless, and poorly lit by a single fluorescent strip, a basement bunker, not a clinic.
Damon was seated on a metal folding chair beside me. The chaos of the breach outside had clearly ended, but his jacket was ripped, a smear of dirt marked his immaculate shirt, and a cut bled faintly above his eyebrow. He was no longer the composed predator; he was a scarred survivor.
He was using a damp cloth to gently clean the scrape on my fore
