“Some of it, yeah. He sent him here, right? If Jace weren’t the best for the job, my dad would have sent someone else, no matter how close he and Kaci are.”

“I know.” But he didn’t look up from my arm until he’d worked his way to the end of the wound and capped the saline. “Okay, we’re done with that part. Next comes the peroxide.”

“Joy.”

“This part’s not optional. Unless you want to die of infection.”

“I know. Just get it over with.”

He unsealed a round brown bottle and unscrewed the lid, then wrapped one hand firmly around my left arm, just above the elbow, to hold it still.

I closed my eyes. He poured. Fire consumed my arm.

“Motherfucker!” I shouted. Then I ground my teeth so hard it hurt to unclench my jaw. I stared at the wallpaper, trying to count the flowers above the toilet. But I only made it to four before the flames made thought all but impossible. “Shouldn’t I be unconscious for this?”

Marc laughed and poured more liquid fire into my open wound, and distantly I heard the front door open. “Jace!” I called, when it clicked closed. “Tequila! And a sledgehammer, if you brought one.”

A paper bag crinkled and Jace laughed. Thank goodness he was amused by my pain—and evidently in a better mood. Jace stepped into the doorway, holding up a bottle of Cuervo. His gaze flicked to Marc, who didn’t look up, and anger flitted across his expression. Then he found me again and raised one brow in question.

Did you tell him?

I gave my head a short, sharp shake, then tossed my hair over one shoulder to disguise the motion. Do you think you’d be standing there whole if I had? It was truly not the time for our confession. Kaci couldn’t afford for us to be less than focused on the job at hand.

Jace frowned. “One minute.” He set the bottle down and ducked into the bedroom, then came back with a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup from the tray over the minifridge. He opened it and poured it half full, then started to hand me the cup—until we both realized I couldn’t hold it. “Sorry. Here.”

Jace held the cup up to my lips and I swallowed convulsively, until the flames in my throat matched those in my arm.

“Are we done yet?”

Marc shook his head and capped the first—now empty—bottle. “It’s still bubbling. If we’re lucky, this’ll keep your arm from rotting off before we get you to the doc.”

The next bottle was no better, even with two more doses of tequila and a can of Coke. But by the time he got out the suture kit, I was feeling pretty good—arm notwithstanding.

Marc threaded the wickedly curved needle, and Jace poured more alcohol. “That’s enough, zurramato!” Marc snapped, with a glance at the plastic cup. “She can’t Shift if she can’t focus.”

Jace ignored him and tilted the cup into my mouth. “She’ll be fine by the time you’re done with that,” he said while I swallowed. Marc glowered, but kept his mouth shut.