Adrian's POV
The treatment room was sterile. Cold metal surfaces, fluorescent lights, the sharp bite of antiseptic in the air. I lay on the examination table, stripped to the waist, while Andrew Reese circled me like a predator assessing prey.
He wore his white coat and surgical mask, but beneath that clinical facade, I could smell the strange herbal scent that clung to him—something with sedative properties, designed to calm anxious patients.
It wouldn't work on me. Raze was too on edge, too aware that we were in enemy territory.
My torso was a map of scars. Claw marks from rogues, bullet wounds from silver rounds, the puckered tissue where a blade had found its way between my ribs. Each one told a story of survival, of battles won at brutal cost.
Andrew studied the scars
