"No."
It's probably saying something about my personality that the first word I can say after being extubated is a straight denial, but to be fair, the situation I'm in warrants it.
The nurse's pink scrubs mock me with their cheerfulness as she approaches my bed, brandishing those three empty vials like weapons. My throat burns from the tube removal, but I manage to croak out another firm "No" when she reaches for my arm.
"Ms. d'Armand, we need to monitor your recovery." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. She's frustrated by my sudden obstinance, I'm sure. "Just a few small samples."
The memory of purple lines crawling under my skin makes my stomach turn. That, and the weird serum they've injected me with. As much as I trust Logan—and I do—I have zero interest in giving this place my blood. I don't want to become some sort of new-age Frankenstein. "Not. Consenting." Each word scrapes like sandpaper, but I need to make this crystal clear. "Want. My blood. Back."
