Chapter 2

"You already slipped." His grip got tighter. His eyes were blown wide and furious. "I felt it. In my teeth. In my spine. You cut and I screamed and it wasn't my mouth. What did you do?"

"I told you the price before I cut."

"You said risk. You didn't say puppet strings."

The monitor behind him was going insane. Two heartbeats. One rhythm. Mine and his, locked. Beep. Beep. Beep. Perfect sync. Too perfect.

"It's a tether," I said. "Blood pact. You wanted the curse out. This is how it comes out."

"Undo it."

"Can't. Not mid-extraction. You pull it now, you bleed out on this table and I go with you."

He stared at me. His chest was open. Not wide open, just enough. A black vein thing pulsed under his skin, thick as a rope, trying to crawl away from my blade. The Bone-Eater. And every time it twitched, his whole body jerked. And so did mine.

"You're lying," he said.

"Am I? Hit me then. See what happens."

He shoved me. Hard. My back hit the instrument cart. Tools clattered. And he flinched like he'd been shoved too. A sharp gasp ripped out of him. His hand flew to his own chest.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Fuck!"

"Yeah. Fuck," I said, breathing hard. My sternum was burning where he'd hit himself. "We share it now. Pain. Pressure. Everything. You hit me, you hit you."

"You did this on purpose."

"I did it so you wouldn't die. You think I want to feel you thrashing around? You think I like feeling your heart trying to punch out of your ribs?"

He was on the table, half-sat up, IV tugging, that cursed vein bulging black against his pale skin. He looked wrecked and dangerous at the same time. Like a cornered animal in a five-thousand-dollar shirt.

"You could have warned me," he snapped.

"I did. You said 'cut, I don't care.' Remember? You said 'I don't care if it kills me.'"

"I didn't agree to feel you!"

"Well, I didn't agree to feel a billionaire having a panic attack in my nervous system, but here we are."

His jaw locked. He was close. Too close. I could feel the heat coming off him, smell the sweat and the antiseptic and the copper. His knee pressed against my thigh because there was nowhere else to go in this tiny sterile room he'd paid to have built in his penthouse.

"So what, we're stuck?" he said, low.

"For now. Until I get the whole curse out. Then the tether snaps. Or we both learn to live with it."

"I don't share."

"Yeah, I got that. Your whole building screams 'I don't share.' But your body didn't get the memo."

He grabbed my collar. Yanked me in. His face was an inch from mine. His breath hit my cheek. Hot. Fast.

"Listen to me, surgeon. You fix this. You cut that thing out of me and you cut this link out with it. Or I will ruin you. I already buried you once. I can do it again."

"You buried me?" I laughed, short and sharp. "Kane, you dug me up. No one else would touch you. Your fancy doctors took one look at that thing in your chest and ran. I'm the only one crazy enough to say yes. So don't threaten me. You need me breathing."

His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up. Angry. But something else under it. Fear. He was scared and he hated being scared.

"Prove it," he said. "Prove you can control it."

"You want control? Lie back. Don't move. And breathe when I tell you to breathe."

"You don't give me orders."

"I do when your heart is in my hands. Literally. You want to play alpha? Fine. But on this table, I'm the one holding the knife. You move, we both flatline. So who's in charge now?"

That hit. His nostrils flared. His grip on my collar loosened, just a fraction.

"Say it," I said. "Say 'you're in charge, doc.'"

"Fuck you."

"Close enough." I twisted my wrist free and picked up the scalpel again. "Lie back. Now."

He didn't. He stared me down.

I leaned in, dropped my voice. "Kane. If you don't lie back in three seconds, that thing will spike and I'll feel it and you'll feel me drop. And then neither of us gets what we want. You want it out? Then let me work."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then, slow, stiff, he lowered himself back down. The leather table creaked.

"Good boy," I muttered without thinking.

His eyes shot to mine. Dark. Sharp. "What did you call me?"

"Nothing. Breathe. In. Out. In."

"Don't get cute, Cillian."

"I'm not cute. I'm focused. And you're clenching. Stop clenching. You're making my hands shake."

"I'm not—" He cut off with a hiss as I pressed the flat of the blade near the black vein. Not cutting. Just pressure. The curse recoiled. And a white-hot line of pain shot up my own arm.

"Ah!" I jerked. "Jesus!"

"You felt that?" he said, eyes wide.

"No shit I felt that!" I was cradling my forearm. It burned like I'd been branded. "It doesn't like being touched. It's got nerves. It thinks it's part of you."

"Get it out."

"I'm trying. But I need you still. I need you to trust me for like, sixty seconds. Can you do that?"

He looked at me. Really looked. Sweat on his forehead. Lips parted. That vein throbbing like a second heart under his skin.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" he asked, quieter now.

"No one does. That's why they blacklisted me. But I'm the only shot you've got. So yeah. Trust me. Or we both die messy."

A beat. The monitors beeped together. His breathing slowed. Mine did too, without me trying.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Cut."

"On three. One—"

I didn't wait for three. I slid the tip in. Just a millimeter. The black thing shrieked — not a sound, a feeling — and Kane arched off the table. And I arched with him. My back bowed. My teeth slammed together.

"Fuck! Fuck! Hold— hold still!" I gasped.

"I'm trying!" he shouted, or I shouted, I couldn't tell whose voice it was. Our hands had found each other. Gripped. Hard. Nails digging.

The pain peaked, then broke. Like a wave. We both collapsed back, panting, foreheads almost touching. His hand was still crushing mine. My scalpel was still inside him, perfectly still, perfectly placed. A thin line of black smoke curled up from the incision and vanished.

"Did you—" he breathed. "Did we—"

"We moved it," I whispered. "Half a centimeter. That's good. That's—"

The penthouse door banged open.

"Step away from him! Hands off the patient!"

We both froze.

Lilith stood in the doorway, white coat, phone up, recording. Two security guys behind her. Her smile was ice.

"Cillian Vane," she said, loud and clear for the camera. "Performing an unlicensed, illegal curse extraction on a non-consenting heir. This is a crime scene. And I have everything on—"

Kane's monitor screamed. A flat, high whine. His heart rate spiked to 190. And mine spiked with it. My knees buckled. I hit the floor hard, scalpel clattering away, my chest seizing like someone had a fist around my heart.

"Kane!" I choked out.

He clawed at his chest, eyes rolling. "What— what's happening—"

Lilith's smile vanished. "What did you do to him? What did you—"

"Don't—" I gasped, reaching for the table, for him, the tether burning like a wire between us, "don't you get it? If he goes, I—"