The water helped.
Phei sank deeper into the sunken pool, letting the steaming heat soak into muscles that felt like they'd been tenderizedby a meat mallet wielded by seven very enthusiastic sadists. The amber lighting had dimmed to a low, forgiving glow, shadows curling protectively around the bathroom to hide the worst of the damage.
The worst of him.
He hissed through clenched teeth as another wound pulled itself together—the long, ugly gash along his ribs where a nailed bat had kissed him a little too intimately, skin knitting with that eerie, invisible tug like phantom sutures were working overtime. His Healing Touch thrummed beneath the surface, sluggish but stubborn, accelerated by the heat.
But Level 1 was a cruel joke against this kind of carnage.
He looked like he'd lost a cage match with a combine harvester and the harvester had been personally offended.
Technically, he thought with the blackest sliver of humor, I won. I'm breathing. You should see the other guy.
