PERSEFONE POV
Doctor Immacolati checked everything.
Pulse. Pupils. Temperature. Blood pressure. The bruises on my wrists, the ones blooming over my ribs, the mark at my throat, the strange magical residue still clinging to my skin like the facility had decided to leave fingerprints.
And then, of course, the places where the restraints had bitten too deep.
His face did not soften.
I was grateful for that.
Softness would have made me cry, and if I cried, there was a decent chance one of my mates would commit a felony in the name of emotional support.
Possibly all three.
The hospital smell kept trying to crawl back under my skin. Antiseptic and metal. Gloves snapping. Clean sheets pulled too tight. White lights above me. Voices asking questions like answers were things they could cut
