Chapter 6 · Code Red on the Wrist

Levi's fist is still knotted in my collar when his wristband screams.

Not the door magnet this time. His cuff. The plastic band they clip on every fighter before a bout, green for cleared, red for something's-wrong-call-a-medic. It goes red right there between us, blinking against his pulse point, and the little speaker in it starts chirping like a smoke alarm.

"Don't move," I say.

"Don't tell me what to do." But he goes still anyway. His grip doesn't loosen. If anything it tightens, knuckles white against my collarbone, like letting go of me is scarier than the band on his own wrist.

"That's a vitals trip," I say. "BP or heart rate. Probably both, since I just spent ten minutes proving a point on your neck."

"You bit me." His voice comes out low, wrecked at the edges, more accusation than fact. "You marked me like a—"

"Like you didn't ask for it with your mouth open."

His jaw works.