“Who’s the salad for, Z?” the doctor asked.

“What?”

“The salad. Who’s it for?”

He pulled out the trash bin and pitched the towel inside. “Bella. It’s for Bella. Look, no offense, but—”

“And when’s the last time you ate?”

He put his hands up, all “Stop! In the Name of Love.” “Enough. I know you mean well, but I’m a short fuse, and the last thing any of us needs is Vishous coming after me because I snapped at you. I get your point—”

“Look at your hand.”

He glanced down. Blood was running from the pad of his thumb onto his wrist and his forearm. If he hadn’t had a short-sleeved T-shirt on, the shit would have been pooling at his elbow. Instead, it was trickling onto the terra-cotta tile.

Doc Jane’s voice was annoyingly level, her logic offensively sound. “You are in a dangerous line of work where you rely on your body to do things that keep you from getting killed. You don’t want to talk to Mary? Fine. But you need to make some concessions physically. That cut should have closed by now. It hasn’t, and I’m willing to bet it bleeds for the next hour or so.” She shook her head. “Here’s my deal. Wrath’s appointed me as the Brotherhood’s personal physician. You screw around with eating and feeding and sleeping such that it impairs your performance, I will bench your ass.”

Z stared at the glossy red droplets seeping up from the wound. The river of them went straight over the inch-wide black slave band that had been tattooed on his wrist nearly two hundred years ago. He had one on his other arm and another around his neck.

Reaching forward, he peeled off another section of paper towel. The blood wiped off just fine, but there was no getting rid of what his sick bitch Mistress had marked him with. The ink was imbedded in his tissue, put there to show that he was property to be used, not an individual to live.