Chapter 8 · Blood and Neon Patch-up

"Hold still, or I’m going to accidentally stitch your lip to your chin," Jax snapped. He leaned in close, his breath smelling like stale coffee and cheap energy drinks.

I didn't move. I couldn't. My shoulder was a mess of shredded synth-skin and raw nerves, and every time I breathed, a jagged piece of shrapnel seemed to vibrate against my collarbone. I glared up at him, my vision flickering with static.

"You’re shaking," I rasped.

"I'm not shaking, you're twitching," he shot back, though his fingers were trembling just enough to make the needle dance. He was focused, his eyes darting between my wound and the holographic display hovering over my chest. "God, Olympus didn't just wipe your head, they practically overclocked your nervous system. You're a walking short-circuit."

He pressed a cold, chemical spray onto the cut. I hissed, my back arching off the grime-streaked table. For a second, his hand stayed there, pressing firmly against my skin. The heat from his palm seeped through the coldness of the spray, a sharp, grounding contrast. I looked at him—really looked at him. He looked like he hadn't slept since the last decade.