Selene remains still. No pressure. Just quiet presence I wouldn’t have expected from anyone in this cursed place.
“Fine.” The word scrapes out of me. Surrender tastes wrong in my mouth. “But I keep the blade.”
“Of course.” She rises fluidly, retrieves the tray, and brings it to me. Sets it within arm’s reach before retreating to her original position. “Eat slowly. Your stomach won’t be used to real food.”
I know that. I’m a veterinarian—or I was, before. Malnourished animals need to be reintroduced to food gradually. Too much too fast and the shock can kill them.
I’m the animal now.
The soup is simple. Broth with vegetables and small pieces of chicken. The bread is soft, easy to tear. I eat slowly, mechanically, forcing myself to chew each bite thoroughly even though everything in me demands I devour the whole thing in seconds.
Selene watches without watching. Present but not intrusive. No questions. No meaningless chatter to fill the silence. Just... patience.
When the bowl is empty, she extends her hand.
“May I check your wounds? Several looked infected when they brought you in.”
I hesitate. The scalpel sits in my lap. My body aches in ways I’ve been trying to ignore—the cuts on my arms, the bruises on my ribs, the puncture wounds where they inserted the needles over and over again.
Selene’s hand hovers between us. Open. Waiting.
I extend my arm.
Her touch is gentle as she examines the cuts, the puncture marks, the half-healed wounds that mottle my skin from wrist to shoulder. Professional, somehow.
“These need to be cleaned properly.” She traces one of the deeper cuts without pressing on it. “I can do that, if you’ll let me. There’s also a healer here—dragon, unfortunately—but he’s good. Annoying, but good.”
“No dragons.” The words come out harder than I intended. “I don’t want—I can’t?—”
“Just me, then.” Selene releases my arm. “I’ll get the supplies.”
She moves to the medical table, gathering cloths and bottles with efficient motions. The firelight catches the edges of a mark on her chest—visible above the neckline of her shirt. Swirling patterns that almost seem to move.
A brand? Like the ones they?—
“It’s a claiming mark.” Selene catches me looking and touches the pattern absently. “Different from what they did to you. This one was... chosen.”
The meaning escapes me. I’m too exhausted to chase it. My head is spinning, fatigue pulling at the edges of my consciousness.
Selene returns with her supplies and begins cleaning my wounds. The antiseptic burns. I welcome the pain—it’s sharp, clarifying, real.
“The red-haired one.” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Rurik. Why won’t he leave?”
Selene’s movements still for a moment. When she looks up, her smile holds meaning I can’t read.
“That’s... complicated.” She resumes her work, dabbing at a particularly deep cut. “And probably not what you want to hear right now.”
“Tell me anyway.” I need to know. Need to understand why that dragon sat on the ground and let me threaten him. Why he offered his face for stabbing. Why he’s outside the door right now, waiting.
Selene finishes bandaging my arm before she answers.
“Dragons have... instincts.” She chooses her words carefully. “When they encounter certain people, those instincts get very loud. Very insistent.” She pauses. “Rurik’s instincts are apparently screaming at him about you.”
“Screaming what?”
“That you’re important. That you need to be protected.” A rueful twist of her lips. “That you belong to him.”
Ice floods my veins. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
