There’s something about facing Marco tomorrow while still carrying his mark that feels unbearable. “I don’t want to go into that lab tomorrow wearing his brand,” I say quietly. “I don’t want him to see it and think he still owns me.”
Malachi’s expression softens, and he reaches for my hand. “He doesn’t own you, Katja. Brand or no brand, you’re free.You’re mine, and I’m yours, and that piece of shit has no claim on you.”
“I know that, and I know he won’t see it on my back,” I say, squeezing his fingers, “but I still want it gone.”
“Alright,” he says, standing and crossing to his duffel bag in the corner. He returns with the bag, and I watch his hands as he rifles through it on the bed.
“You have everything we need in here already?” I ask, though I shouldn’t be surprised. Malachi’s always prepared for anything.
“I keep supplies close. Medical kit, Avidian, weapons, it’s better to stash things in multiple places than get caught without options,” he says, extracting two vials that catch the dim light and sparkle. One has a green cap, and one has an orange cap. He sets them carefully on the nightstand alongside gauze and medical tape.
“I think if you inhale the healing Avidian first, before I start, it may work so well you’re left with no scar at all,” he says, holding up the vial with the green cap.
“I’ll take it after. I want a small scar to remain, not as a reminder of what he did but of what I survived.”
The silence stretches between us as he studies my face, searching for any hint of doubt. “Are you absolutely certain? Once we do this, there’s no undoing it. And Katja…” His voice drops. “This is going to hurt like hell. Worse than the original branding, because I need to burn deep enough to destroy all the scar tissue.”
“I know.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “This is my choice. My body. My terms.”
He nods slowly, then moves to sit behind me on the bed. “Turn around. Let me see what we’re working with.”
I shift away from him and quickly tie my hair up in a bun, exposing the raised, twisted skin between my shoulder blades.The Volkov crest covers nearly four inches of my back. Thankfully, my hair covers it when my clothes don’t. I feel Malachi’s sharp intake of breath, even though he’s seen it before.
His fingers trace the edges, mapping the raised borders where the iron burned deepest. “He’s going to die for this,” Malachi says quietly.
“Don’t think about him right now,” I say. “Think about erasing him.”
His hands still against my skin. “The moment I start, you scream if you need to. Bite something and tell me if you want me to stop.”
I turn my head to catch his eyes. “Don’t stop until it’s done.”
“I won’t.” When he picks up Aurora’s vial, his hands are rock steady. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say firmly, grabbing my pillow and hugging it to my chest. I bend my head forward and bite down on the fabric.
The first touch of controlled fire against my skin steals every thought from my head. It’s the kind of pain that blinds, sharp and immediate, like every nerve ending is screaming in unison. The heat crawls methodically across the brand, burning through the memory of it. Then the smell hits—the thick, sickening stench of flesh singed raw—and bile rises in my throat.
Tears spill hot down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. That’s when Mish materializes in front of me, cool and translucent, her tongue lapping at my face. The ghostly sensation pulls me out of the agony enough to breathe. My sweet girl, always knowing when I need her.
“I’m done,” Malachi says at last, and I realize I’m shaking so hard my whole body trembles against the mattress.
He pops the top off the healing Avidian, and I inhale the glittering swirl as it releases into the air. It spreads through melike liquid starlight, soothing, mending, like my cells are knitting themselves back together from the inside out.
“Are you all right? Talk to me,” Malachi urges.
I nod, the death grip on my pillow finally loosening as the pain ebbs faster than I expected. I draw a shaky breath and sit up straighter, marveling at the absence where agony had festered.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
“Free,” I whisper. It feels true in a way nothing ever has. “It feels like I’m free.”
Behind me, he makes a small, pleased sound. “I don’t even think I need to bandage it. Your body’s healing it already,” he says.
The ache is fading by the second. “How does it look?”
“Two pale scars, thin as lines,” he says softly.
I close my eyes, and a sob breaks free, half grief and half relief. For the first time since he pressed that iron into me, my back feels like it belongs to me again. Not his. Not a mark of ownership. Mine.
