His jaw tightened and his stony gaze met mine for a long moment. Carefully he reached over, wincing, and snapped a small twig from the fallen Throne Tree. “Here.”

The liquid pooled at the end. “Unbutton your shirt.”

He reached under my hand and began unbuttoning, his face refusing to show the pain I knew the movement caused him. Our collective anger had gotten us into this mess, and we might as well see it through to the very bloody end.

I didn’t have to tell him to pull the right side of his shirt off his shoulder. He did it with a glare, offering his skin for my mark.

I placed the dripping edge of the branch against a spot above his right nipple and met his gaze. A moment passed. And then I pressed until the skin broke. I cut the same shape into his flesh and muttered the same words he had, but used my name where he had used his. His dark, thunderous expression never changed; his eyes never looked away from me.

Once I was done, I dropped the branch. I had no idea what kind of mark I’d just given him. My attention returned to the stick embedded in his chest.

He gave me a sharp nod.

I drew in a deep breath, feeling the stark twinges of guilt and remorse for what had transpired. Hindsight was a bitch, and I was pretty certain Hank was thinking the same thing. My hand tightened around the stick.

One. Two. Three!

I jerked hard.

It came out with a slight sucking sound, releasing a fresh blossom of blood. Hank flinched and then lifted himself off my pelvis to sit on the floor beside me. Sweat beaded on his brow. He swiped it off with his forearm before placing his hands flat on the floor, hanging his head low and breathing in deeply.

The mark on my shoulder blade burned, the inky poison sealing the symbol. His was doing the same—but even worse for him, the ink was running through his wound, seeping into his bloodstream with a larger dose than that of a simple mark.

As the last bit of anger retreated, the cold crept in, leaving me trembling and realizing the enormity of our situation. I leaned over on my knees and touched Hank’s hand. The skin was hot. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and his chin. His head remained bowed. “Tell me what to do, Hank.” He didn’t answer. “Hank!”

“Cold,” he forced out. “Need to … cool … down.”

I scrambled to my feet and hooked my arm under his, pulling until he made it to his feet. By the time he had, I was sweating, too. I led him into his bedroom and the master bath, the only place I knew to get him cold.

The extravagant bathroom had a shower big enough for a party of five and an assortment of showerheads. It took me several seconds to figure out the nozzle/shower combination. I set it to rain cool water down from the round showerhead on the ceiling and then turned to him to see him fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt.

I took over, fingers flying through the buttons and then removing it carefully, briefly touching hot skin and making me feel guilty again. Once his shirt was off, he straightened, trembling all over, blood seeping out of the small wound and over his flawless skin. Next I fumbled with the zipper and pulled his jeans down.

He held on to my shoulder as he stepped out of them. I glanced up to see he wore black boxer briefs. I straightened, avoiding his gaze, and pulled back the glass shower door.

“I’m fine now,” he muttered, but I helped him step into the shower, leaving the briefs right where they were. He gasped at the cool spray, the water thinning the blood on his chest as his arms went protectively up, his muscles tensing.

I swallowed. Seeing him weakened like this—my eyes stung—I’d almost killed him. And for what? Because I had to win? Couldn’t admit the truth that he so easily saw? “I didn’t know about the ink,” I said quietly.

He bowed his head and stepped fully under the rain shower, the water flattening his hair and running over his wide shoulders. “I know, Charlie.” He spit water from his lips and then stepped back, using both hands to rub his face and swipe the hair back off his forehead.

The mark on his chest was angry and red, but the cold water washed away the blood as soon as it surfaced. The other wound was worse, but he’d heal. Both wounds, however, would leave a scar. That was another one of the Throne Tree’s unique properties. Hank would heal on the inside—most likely in a few hours—but he’d carry the scars for the rest of his life. I tried not to think about my own mark, and the warm, sticky blood that soaked my back and shirt.

“Here, turn around,” Hank’s solemn voice jerked my gaze from his chest to his face. He held out a washcloth. Mutely I turned as he slowly lifted my shirt and pressed the cold, wet cloth against my mark. I hissed, but the initial sting was lessened by the cold.

He wrung out the cloth a few times, pressing it against the mark until finally it stopped bleeding. “You should take off the shirt,” he said. “You can borrow one of mine.”

I turned, stepping out of his reach and pulling the hem of my shirt back down. “It’s okay.” My gaze snagged on the tile under my feet for a long moment before I lifted my chin. “I’m sorry.” I frowned and shook my head. “I didn’t mean to fight, I just … I’m not … I don’t think I’m ready …”

“Don’t worry about it.” His attempt at a halfhearted smile came out as a pain-laced grimace. “That’s the last time I drink Yrrebé around you.” He shook his head, quiet for a moment, before saying, “I wasn’t thinking straight … about the mark.”

Two small dots of heat stung my cheeks. “What, um, kind of mark is it exactly?”

A slow exhale whispered through his wet lips as he turned regretful eyes on me. “It’s a truth mark.” My stomach dropped, my mouth opened, but he continued quickly, “We’ll make a pact not to ask each other anything that involves things of a personal nature. And if we mess up and ask, then don’t answer. The ink won’t respond unless you outright lie.”

My eyelids fluttered closed, and I shook my head in total disbelief at what we’d done. “I can’t believe this …”

“Yeah,” Hank echoed, one corner of his mouth dipping into a frown. “Me neither … So, pact?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Got it.”

“Same here.”

We skirted around the other issue—the intimate one—and that was fine by me. “I should go talk to the Storyteller.”

“Wait for me, Charlie.”

“We just wasted an hour with all this … mess. You’re in no shape to go anywhere. Stay and heal. I’ll call you after I’m done.” I left the bathroom to the sound of Hank’s soft curse, grabbed my jacket and harness off the stool, and hurried out of the apartment.

Only after my feet landed on the sidewalk of Helios Alley did I stop and allow myself to breathe. Holy hell.

Way to go, Charlie. Pop over to meet up with your partner and leave with a freakin’ mark. Just great.

I groaned, tucking the jacket between my knees as I slipped my arms into my weapons harness, glad for small miracles—the strap just missed the mark on my shoulder. I left my jacket off, not wanting to stain the inside with the wet blood on my shirt. I kicked a piece of glass off the sidewalk and into the dip of the curb, glancing up at the blown-out window and realizing how disheveled I must look—clothes twisted, hair a mess, soil all over me. Quickly I rearranged myself, redid my hair, and brushed the dirt from my clothes, then began the trek down Helios Alley toward the plaza.

Throne Tree ink could kill an Elysian. That was a little fact I hadn’t known, and I’d bet that most people didn’t. And I’d bet the only reason I learned of it was because I’d almost killed my partner. I’d seen a few of those trees before, but only in upscale residences and shops—apparently they were high-dollar due to the difficulties in cultivation and the cost of importing them.