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COHEN

T he first time the fucker cut into my hand, it was conveniently without anesthetic. I watched Adrian’s pupils dilate, his mouth curl behind his surgical mask, his nostrils flare. The crazy bastard was getting off on it. He was enjoying my pain. And I couldn’t even blame ?em. Because I knew the feeling.

I felt it too. Or at least I used to. It’d been a while.

By the tenth incision, I was numb to the bite of the blade in more ways than one. The buzz of the antiquated machinery helped lull me into a state of hypnosis, most of my nerve endings severed and pieced back together like some home-sown rag doll.

I didn’t mind the aesthetic. The lackluster suturing and lazy tie-offs. I wasn’t much to look at anymore anyway. I refused a fucking glass eye just to make everyone else in the room more comfortable. I wouldn’t mind if the cocksuckers choked on their tongues when they stared into my open socket.

In fact, I hoped they did.

The fluid trickling down my fingertips was lukewarm at best. I barely registered the dampness pooling at my fifth metacarpal. Lost count of all the lost liters. My right arm was hooked up to an infusion, a new bag pumping fresh blood into my system as quickly as it dripped into the steel surgical tray. Didn’t know where it came from. Didn’t care to ask either.

I was supposed to gain mobility after this. Be able to curl the fourth digit and extend the second. So that at the very least I could hold a scalpel in my hand again. My grip would never be what it was. My fine motor skills impaired beyond reconstruction.

But, as much as I hated to admit it, Ghost Boy’s spine ignited a little spark of hope in my chest. I could almost feel my little black heart beating again.

The classical music skipped on the track, repeating the same fucked-up chorus over and over again in tune with Doctor Jekyll’s disjointed humming as he snipped the final thread and grinned at his handiwork. “Now isn’t she pretty…”

“Not really,” I grunted while lifting my hand to glare at the line of unevenly spaced interruptions. I could have done a better stitch with my teeth and a pair of rusty tweezers. I moved to flex my fingers and realized the paresthesia wasn’t all in my head. I craned my neck, eyeing Adrian’s back as he bent over the large industrial sink mounted against the far wall.

“I can’t feel anything.” It was an observation and a question rolled up in one.

“Much better than the pain, hm?”

“Why?”

“Why’s it better?” He shifted his body to one side, directing his glare at me while rinsing a few pints of my blood down the drain—then again, was it even mine anymore? Possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that.

Yeah, shit was definitely getting to my head. I wanted a drink. What I needed was a hefty dose of iron shoved down my throat. Maybe another few bags of fluids.

“No, why’d you use an analgesic?”

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” My head was throbbing, the temporary hypovolemia causing my lower limbs to wobble when I tried to stand. “I can’t feel anything.”

“So you’ve said.”

“ Why ?”

Adrian huffed out a breath. Fucker was losing his patience with me. Good, seeing as mine flew out the goddamn barred windows about a week ago.

“Because that’s what happens when you cauterize the ulnar and median nerves. Once it’s done, it can’t be reversed. The sensation’s gone. Given your credentials, I didn’t think I’d have to explain myself like I’m talking to a first year med student.”

I knew better. Lack of sensation did not mean lack of internal damage. My quick temper didn’t seem to care.

My swollen fist snapped forward and connected with the cocky fucker’s sharp jaw. I heard the cracking of bone. Didn’t know if it was mine or his or a combination of both before I felt a sharp pinch in my carotid.

In a perfect world, I would have been able to narrow down the paralytic agent by factoring in my height and weight and calculating my body’s overall response time. Today I didn’t have that luxury. The blood loss expedited the onset and the compound had taken full effect by the time my knees hit the floor.

I blinked twice, the only thing in focus a set of teeth outlined by a pair of curling lips before I was left to stare at the fleshy underside of my eyelid—awake but incapable of moving.

The son of a bitch had drugged me…