“Bring her four.” Marc shook his head at me when I started to protest. “You’ll need it. And probably more. You’re going to have to Shift at least half a dozen times in the next couple of hours—possibly twice that—and you’ll have to eat and rest in between, or you’ll pass out. Again. And even if you look healed, you probably won’t be one hundred percent, which means you only fight as a last resort. Got it?”

I started to argue, then got a vivid mental image of my wrist re-cracking when I threw my first punch. Which could very well get all of us caught, and both of them killed. “I got it. Now, can we get this off? I feel like a mummy.”

“I’ll be right back,” Jace said, and that time he grabbed the car keys before heading out the door.

Marc unwound the gauze from my arm gently, and I didn’t brave a look until it was bare.

“Oh, shit!” I whispered. I looked more like Franken-stein’s monster than the Mummy. All I need now is a bolt through my neck…

Marc rubbed my back, and I leaned into his touch. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it…neater. Hopefully there won’t be permanent muscle damage, but it’s gonna scar.”

Yes, it would. A long, jagged gash ran nearly the length of my left forearm, my swollen skin held together with suture thread and a prayer. When I held my arm parallel to the floor, the new wound resembled an erratic heartbeat on a hospital monitor. Or a small, bloodcrusted range of mountains.

I shrugged and blinked back tears. Enforcers weren’t supposed to have smooth skin, anyway, right? “Don’t worry about it. I doubt Dr. Carver could have done any better. Besides, it looks bad-ass, right?” I forced a teary smile, and Marc returned it.

“Without a doubt.”

“Figures, though. My most obvious scar is from falling through a fucking deer stand, instead of fighting some ferocious foe.”

Marc laughed. “So we make up a story. You were defending a huddle of innocent orphans from some psycho with a broken steel pipe. He caught you across the arm, right before you kicked his ass back to his padded room.” He smiled, gold specks sparkling in his eyes.

My heart melted. “I love you.” I leaned forward and kissed him.

He smiled. “I know.”

“I wanna Shift at least once before Jace gets back. Can you help?”

“Of course.” Marc held my elbow to steady me while I sank to my knees on the rough carpet. Holding my breath, I pulled my stitched left arm to my chest and tugged the towel free. It fell to the carpet, and Marc pulled it out of the way. My arm hurt, but not like it had hurt before. Closing the wound had helped, at least a little.

Careful of my broken wrist, I brushed the fingers of my right hand gently across the new stitches. My left arm felt oddly numb, with only an echo of the pain I should have felt. And the chemical smell was stronger up close.

“What’s on my arm?”

“Benzocaine,” Marc said. “It’s a topical anesthetic. Normally you shouldn’t use it on such a large area, or on an open wound. But technically yours is closed now, and I thought Shifting might be easier this way. It dulls pain in your skin, but won’t affect your muscles or movement at all.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank Jace. He got it from the convenience store next door.”

Oh.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Except that I couldn’t support weight with my broken wrist. “Crap. Suggestions?”

“On your side.” Marc shrugged. “It’s awkward, but it’ll work. I had to do that after I broke my arm a couple of years ago. Of course, I wore the cast for three weeks first.…”

I stared at him in surprise. “You broke your arm?”

“Some asshole swung a two-by-four from around a corner while Vic and I were trying to corral him. You were at school.”

I’d been at school for five years and had rarely called home. And even when I had, I hadn’t asked about Marc, because I hadn’t wanted to encourage him. I’d thought I was done with the Pride—that I would graduate, then get a job in the human world and live a normal life.

Turns out there are several different definitions of normal, and now I couldn’t imagine living in a world in which the daily grind included little pummeling and almost no face smashing.

“You hit him back?” I asked, and Marc grinned.

“With my other fist. Broke his jaw.”

“Damn right.” I smiled, and his hand found my elbow again, helping me lower myself to the ground. I lay on my right side and stared at the bathroom door as Marc backed away, giving me space.

I hadn’t Shifted since the night Kevin Mitchell had broken my arm nearly two weeks earlier, so I felt more than a bit overdue. Fortunately, I hadn’t yet hit the point at which not Shifting would damage my health.

I closed my eyes and let my head rest on the floor, then inhaled through my nose—and immediately regretted it. I hated Shifting indoors, and especially hated Shifting in motels. Instead of the scents of pine needles, ferns, and fresh creek water—which long-term habit had taught my body to use as signals to begin the process—I got chemical cleaning products, and all the disgusting odors they hadn’t been able to kill. Cigarette smoke, stale takeout, and bodily fluids I didn’t even want to imagine.

Springs creaked as Marc sank onto one of the beds, and I resisted the urge to look at him. For the first time since I could remember, I didn’t want to Shift, because I knew it would hurt. And that I’d have to do it over and over again.