No, wait, that’s not all mine. Marc had already been bloody when he and Jace found me in the woods, and now that his shirt was off, I saw why. His left biceps was scored by four brand-new claw marks, and I could tell by the scent of the wound that they hadn’t come from Jace. They’d run into another stray. No wonder it took them a while to find me.

But before I could ask him what happened, several thumps and a soft grunt drew my attention to the living room, where Lucas and Jace—who had Shifted back and re-dressed—were carrying a limp, naked male form. The stray.

Dr. Carver’s magic needle had worked—further evidence that if given enough time, science could overcome nature entirely. Maybe someday it would be able to reverse werecat infection, giving strays back their human existence. But so far, the only hope available to strays was learning how best to play cards with the hands they’d been dealt. Marc coped very well. Andrew had not.

The last thing I saw from the living room before Dr. Carver stepped into my room and pulled the door shut was Lucas duct taping the stray’s wrists together while Jace worked on his ankles. Then Dr. Carver sat in the chair Marc vacated, and I exhaled slowly, mentally preparing myself for the stitches to come.

Marc held my hand while Dr. Carver gave me a local anesthetic to numb the site of the sutures. When I realized the local anesthetic involved a needle, I nearly crushed his fingers. After that, when the actual stitches began, he switched to stroking my hair, and sent Jace for the stress ball Michael had given me. By the time the doctor had me patched back together, that stupid squishy ball lay in tiny clumps of foam all over my comforter.

But that wasn’t what got me through the stitches, every one of which I felt as little painless-but-weird tugs in my flesh. Neither was it my father, who returned to pace at the end of my bed. What got me through was Marc, holding my attention with one old enforcer tale after another. Some were funny. Some were dumb. But all of them were better than listening to my father’s anxious pacing, or Dr. Carver mumbling to himself as he counted my stitches.

Once again, Marc had come through for me when I needed him, though I’d failed him time and again.

When my stomach was finally stitched up, and my father had both inspected and approved of his work, Dr. Carver covered my belly with several large pieces of gauze, which he held in place with thick white medical tape.