When the surgeon arrived, his movements were hesitant, almost uneasy. He prepared the equipment in silence, his eyes darting toward me more than once. He knew what he was. He knew who paid him. And he knew that questioning the Bellandi heir's orders was the kind of mistake a man only makes once.
The needle he used was thick.
Too thick.
Nearly the width of a baby's finger.
When it pierced my skin, it sank deep into my vein with a dull, invasive pressure that spread through my arm. Blood flowed steadily through the tube, dark and steady, as if my body had already accepted what was happening.
I didn't tell Dominic the truth.
From the very first time I died for him, I had known.
I could only die one hundred times.
And once I had died in his hands one hundred times, my blood-vow curse would be complete.
After that, I would disappear.
Gone completely.
To a place no one could reach.
From that moment on, I would no longer belong to love.
Nor to humanity.
Nor to anyone at all.
Dominic's phone rang, cutting through the silence.
He answered without even glancing at me, his attention already elsewhere.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the clinic," he said, his tone brisk and efficient.