Page 69 of Bone Year

“A few minutes for what?”

He answers by backing me against the lift wall as the door slides shut, one hand bracing beside my head, the other sliding around my waist.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning. It’s very distracting.”

“We’re at work,” I whisper, but my hands are already grabbing his shirt.

“So we’ll be quick.”

His mouth finds mine, and I stop thinking about patients and fissure wounds and grumpy vampires. I stop thinking about anything except the heat of him, his taste, the way his wings rustle and press against the lift walls like they’re trying to wrap around us both.

The lift lurches into motion, and I gasp against his lips.

“What floor?” he murmurs.

“Seven.”

“That gives us about thirty seconds.”

“Then stop talking.”

He grins against my mouth and kisses me harder.

When the lift doors open on level seven, I’m flushed and breathless, and my hair is messier than it was before. Jace looks annoyingly composed and perfect.

“Good luck with your patient.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll see you later.”

He steps back into the lift, that satisfied smile on his lips. The doors start to close between us.

Someone shouts, “It’s 709! Someone get to 709!”

I spin around. Two menders sprint past me, faces tight with panic.

My blood turns to ice.

709. Cael Brannock.

That’s my patient.

Chapter Seventeen

“The ones who let you in are the ones who will break you when they go.”

— Unsigned Healer’s Warning

Floor seven smells different than five. Less chemical, more stale. Like air that’s been breathed too many times by people who’ve been here too long. Long-term care.

I follow the sound of shouting.

Room 709 is at the end of the corridor, and I can hear a deep, gravelly voice roaring words I can’t quite make out followed by a crash that echoes off the stone walls.

Two menders are huddled outside the door, one of them pressing a cloth to a cut on her forehead. Blood seeps through the fabric. Inside I can see another mender backed against the wall, hands raised, while a figure on the bed hurls what looks like a water pitcher across the room.

“Someone get a blood lead,” the injured mender hisses. “He’s out of control.”

“Malric’s on three. He’ll take forever to⁠—”

“I’ll handle it.” They both turn to stare at me. The one with the head wound laughs. “You? You’re a bone year. You’ve been here what, an hour?”