Lyra Senna sent for me just before lunch, her message was delivered by a young omega who wouldn't meet my eyes.I found her in the infirmary. The room was clean and smelt heavily like chemicals and dried lavender. Senna stood with her back to me by the window, her fingers moving with terrifying efficiency as she lined up small red bottles on a wooden shelf. Each label bore the same precise handwriting I had come to recognize as hers.“Sit,” she said. She didn't turn around. The clicking of glass against glass filled the room.I obeyed, the legs of the heavy wooden chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as I sat.When she finally turned, she held a narrow glass vial and a curved, silver metal instrument—the same one she had used on me weeks ago. She didn't ask my permission as her fingers wrapped around my wrist, a small shiver ran down my spine. Her skin always felt cold, as if her blood ran a few degrees lower than the rest of our kind.She pressed the metal tip to my finger.
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