I breathe.
“And it will take weeks to heal,” he continues. “Longer before strain is safe.”
I hold his gaze. “Not a problem.”
* * *
He doesn’t have to ask me to lie down. I’m on the table, arms braced behind me, before he can point.
He preps the area like he’s cleaning a countertop—detached, clinical.
“This will feel like pressure,” he says.
“I don’t need the speech.”
He injects the anesthetic. There’s a sting, then warmth. The black seam in my palm tingles for a second, then nothing.
I watch the ceiling, counting the seconds.
“Can you feel that?” he asks, pressing lightly.
“Keep going.”
He makes the incision. There’s a dull tugging sensation deep in my body. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.
He pauses and takes a step back.
“Problem?” I ask.
“No.” Although he doesn’t sound convinced.
I feel another pull, something tight, like resistance from inside, not from the scalpel. My pulse spikes for half a second. The seam in my palm flickers, darkening to true black for a heartbeat.
He adjusts his grip. Cuts. Ties. Clips. He finishes the second side the same way—efficient, measured, no fucking drama.
He removes his gloves. “It’s done,” he says.
Just like that. No mythic interruption. No lightning strike. No voice in my head.
“You’ll be sore for a few days,” he continues, already moving to the sink. “No heavy strain. No activity for at least a week.”
I nod, sliding off the table. Relief doesn’t hit like I expected because the tar is quiet. Too fucking quiet.Why the fuck is it so quiet?
I get to my feet, but my father’s gaze stays fixed on the counter. “There’s a chance,” he starts, his back still to me. He stops himself.
“A chance of what?”
He turns, and for a half-second, his eyes are on me, flat and unreadable. “Never mind. Keep the area clean.”
He turns away and leaves me like we didn’t just snuff out the St. Clair bloodline for good.
* * *
I’m feeling good, great even. Whatever soreness I was expecting is already gone. It’s been barely an hour and the tender feeling in my sack is already history.
I walk a little slower at first, testing it. By the time I hit the corner of 7th and Kingsley, I can tell I’m fully healed.
Something useful, at least. Something good about this fucking curse. Most men would be icing their balls right now. I feel… reset.
