While Mild was being "cultivated" in the silent architecture of the North, back in the city, the air in the apartment was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and the heavy, humid heat of a fever.
Elena lay beneath a mountain of blankets, her skin flushed a deep, feverish pink. The stress of the past weeks—the Bridge, the flight, the children, and the constant threat of the Armitages—had finally shattered her immune system. She was shivering, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Style moved through the room not as the sharp-tongued surgeon, but as a silent, focused shadow. She had shed her clinical blazer, wearing only a thin silk camisole that clung to her as she worked.
"Stay still, El," Style whispered, her voice a low vibration that seemed to buzz against Elena's skin.
