Bryce stared at her mother, who was always so good at cutting to the heart of everything, at rendering her into rubble with a few words. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Bullshit, Bryce.” Her mom’s eyes glazed with tears. “You think Danika would want you limping in pain for the rest of your existence? You think she would’ve wanted you to stop dancing?”

“I don’t want to talk about Danika.” Her voice trembled.

Ember shook her head in disgust. “I’ll message the medwitch’s address and number when I get the appointment for you. Good night.”

She hung up without another word.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

57

Thirty minutes later, Bryce had changed into her sleep shorts and was brooding on her bed when a knock thumped on the door. “You’re a fucking traitor, Athalar,” she called.

Hunt opened the door and leaned against its frame. “No wonder you moved here, if you and your mom fight so much.”

The instinct to strangle him was overwhelming, but she said, “I’ve never seen my mom back down from a fight. It rubbed off, I guess.” She scowled at him. “What do you want?”

Hunt pushed off the door and approached. The room became too small with each step closer. Too airless. He stopped at the foot of her mattress. “I’ll go to the medwitch appointment with you.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why?”

She sucked in a breath. And then it all burst out. “Because once that wound is gone, once it stops hurting, then Danika is gone. The Pack of Devils is gone.” She shoved back the blankets, revealing her bare legs, and hitched up her silk sleep shorts so the full, twisting scar was visible. “It will all be some memory, some dream that happened for a flash and then was gone. But this scar and the pain …” Her eyes stung. “I can’t let it be erased. I can’t let them be erased.”

Hunt slowly sat beside her on the bed, as if giving her time to object. His hair skimmed his brow, the tattoo, as he studied the scar. And ran a calloused finger over it.

The touch left her skin prickling in its wake.

“You’re not going to erase Danika and the pack if you help yourself.”

Bryce shook her head, looking toward the window, but his fingers closed around her chin. He gently turned her face back to his. His dark, depthless eyes were soft. Understanding.

How many people ever saw those eyes this way? Ever saw him this way?

“Your mother loves you. She cannot—literally, on a biological level, Bryce—bear the thought of you in pain.” He let go of her chin, but his eyes remained on hers. “Neither can I.”

“You barely know me.”