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I don’t care either way. I have no business knowing what she’s thinking anyway.
"Well," a small voice says from the stairway. "It looks as though congratulations are in order."
I don't move yet. Don't look up at the doctor I know is probably now stepping down the stairway. I just lick the salty, iron-tinged blood of my mate's hand until her skin has healed, and until I gain enough control over myself to know that I won't drag her back to my rooms and have my way with her.
"Clever idea. I'm Doctor Jekyll."
"Jekyll?" she repeats, looking between us.
I make myself stand up, shoving my own bleeding hand into the pocket of my pants. "It's a family name."
"Yes, that family," the doctor says.
As always, he's wearing the plague mask. I have no idea what's underneath it, and I have a mind that I probably shouldn't ask.
"I'll leave you to it," I tell her and the doctor. "Answer his questions honestly, and he'll be honest with you. I'll make a quick lunch so that we can start preparing immediately. We have fourteen days to get you ready."
And with that, I walk away from my betrothed, my fated mate, and vow not to let my heart get involved. Because Vivienne dying will, without a doubt, be the thing that breaks me.
Eighteen
Vivienne
The sound of Lachlan’s heavy boots fading down the hallway leaves me alone with the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer and a man wearing a leather bird beak.
Dr. Jekyll descends the last few stairs, the glass lenses of his mask catching the light of the chandelier. Up close, the leather of his mask is impeccably stitched, smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol.
"Have a seat on the stairs, Miss Estrella." His voice is muffled but strangely soothing, like a professor about to deliver a lecture.
I sink onto the bottom step, clutching my newly branded wrist, grateful to finally be sitting.
It’s been a weird few hours.
Jekyll doesn't ask me to stick out my tongue or shine a light in my eyes. Instead, he reaches out with two fingers clad in supple black leather and presses them directly against the pulse point on my neck. His touch is freezing.
"Rapid," he murmurs. "The mortal nervous system was not designed to harbor the unmaking. You are running an industrial power plant on lackluster wiring. Tell me, do you suffer from pressure at the base of the skull? Nosebleeds when your temper flares?"
"Yes," I say, blinking in surprise. "I usually just take an Advil."
A sound that might be a dry chuckle rasps behind the beak. "Advil is for mortals with tension headaches. You are experiencing acute vascular pressure from ungrounded magical current. When you call upon your power—or when it defends you—it superheats your blood."
He reaches into the folds of his dark coat and produces a heavy, dark glass dropper bottle. He places it in my palm.
"Three drops on the tongue when the pressure builds. It will cool the blood and dilate the vessels so you don't fracture your own skull from the inside out." Jekyll steps back, tilting his masked head to study me. "Power is heat, Miss Estrella. A kettle whistles before it boils over. If your nose starts bleeding or you smell scorched copper, step away from whatever you are unmaking. A cracked vessel cannot hold wine, no matter how ancient the vintage."
I look down at the little bottle. A prescription for magical migraines. "Got it," I say, feeling ridiculously relieved. "Don't boil my own brain. Thank you, Doc."
"Survival is the best medicine," he replies cryptically, turning on his heel. "Do try to survive.”
Nineteen
Vivienne
Iwake up staring at my wrist, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
The morning light cuts through the bear in the stained-glass window, throwing blue and amber patterns across the duvet. When I lift my arm, the braided knot beneath my skin catches the sun. It doesn’t look like a tattoo. It looks alive. The two cords—one deep midnight-cyan, one molten gold—pulse faintly against my veins, steady as a second heartbeat.
I turn my wrist over. Right above the artery, the ends are loose, little wisps of glowing light that fade into my pale skin.
