Chapter 7 · The Price of Breathing

"Take your hand off the drawer, Mara." Dax's voice came from behind me. "Slowly. If you reach for a blade, I break your wrist before you can blink."

I kept my fingers on the medicine case anyway.

His boots stopped less than a foot behind me. Close enough that heat pressed through the thin fabric of my shirt. Close enough for me to hear the rough pull of his breath.

"You came into my workshop bleeding," I said. "You don't get to give orders."

"I came here to arrest you. The bleeding was your fault."

"You kicked in my door."

"You ran from the bureau."

"Because the bureau wanted to hang me."

"They still do."

I turned my head just enough to see him over my shoulder. Dax Rourke stood between me and the only exit, one hand pressed hard against his left side. Blood had soaked through his gray coat and dripped onto my floor.

The other hand held a short oath-iron blade pointed at my ribs.

His face looked carved from bad decisions. Hard jaw. Pale eyes. No patience left in them.

But his hand was shaking.

"Put the blade down," I said.

"Open the case."

"No.