The recovery suite at Dr. Elias's clinic was nicer than most five-star hotels, but it still smelled like antiseptic and regret.
Damien woke up feeling like his brain had been removed, put in a blender, and then shoved back into his skull sideways. The neurotoxin had left him with a migraine that made his usual chronic pain feel like a gentle tickle.
He groaned, trying to sit up.
"Don't," a voice commanded from the chair beside the bed.
Aria was sitting there, her legs tucked under her, reading a medical journal she had clearly stolen from Elias's office. She looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, hair messy—but she was alive.
"You look terrible," Damien rasped, his throat dry as sandpaper.
"You look worse," Aria countered, closing the journal. She stood up and poured him a glass of water. "Drink. Elias says your kidneys need flushing. Which sounds gross, but apparently keeps you alive."
