Page 326 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Ivy's hands go still. She's listening carefully.

"The injections will help stabilize the feral regression," Dr. Jackson says. "Considerably. But…" She hesitates, her eyes going to my face, and her mouth tightens into a firm line.

Oh gods.

"They're not going to do anything about the nerve damage in your face," she continues, softening her voice. "And that's getting worse on its own. The compression is exacerbating the nerve damage. Every hour you spend with fabric pressing against these nerve clusters, you're undoing whatever progress we make on the pain management side." She sets the clipboard down and looks at me directly. "I'm telling you—and I say this as someone who has known you for a very long time and cares deeply about you—you cannot wear anything over your face anymore."

My heartbeat fills my skull.

I stare at her.

She stares back, her lips tightening into a sad smile.

"I understand what that means for you," she says gently. "I do. And I'm sorry."

You don't understand.

My hands can't move to sign it.

Nothing can fucking move.

Not even Ivy is breathing.

"Now, separate from BioMuzzle. The nerve damage." She reaches for the tray to pull it closer. "These are the injections you were supposed to receive on your last visit. They won't fix the underlying problem, but they'll take the edge off the pain while we get you started on the BioMuzzle program."

She pulls back the blue paper covering the tray.

Four syringes pre-loaded, lying in a neat row on sterile gauze.

She picks up the first syringe and checks it. "It's going to hurt more than they usually do. I won't lie to you about that. But the pain relief should kick in within a few hours."

Ivy leans forward. "Is there anything I can⁠—"

"Hold his hand," Dr. Jackson says to her. "That's the best thing."

Ivy's grip tightens. Her eyes meet mine.

You've got this, they say.

I don't.

I really fucking don't.

But I lean my head back against the headrest and tilt my jaw to expose the left side.

"Good," Dr. Jackson murmurs. "First one. Small pinch."

Small pinch is a fucking lie.

Always is.

The needle slides into the tissue behind my left ear and liquid fire floods that entire quarter of my face. Every muscle in my body locks up, the heel of my boot digging into the floor where my leg slipped off hard enough the chair slides backward an inch.

The snarl that comes out of me is subterranean and I shove it down hard, terrified I'll scare the doctor or Ivy or some innocent person in the hall who has no idea what they have in this room.

Ivy's hand is crushing mine.

Or mine is crushing hers.