“I knew it,” I manage, voice raw. “I knew you were a killer.” Another wave of nausea threatens an encore performance, but I swallow it down with sheer willpower. “I wanted to show you I could handle it. That I could help with Blackwell.” I gesture toward the surgical table, focusing on literally anything else. “Well, that audition went spectacularly. From badass potential sidekick to vomiting mess in sixty seconds flat. But I can improve. I promise.” The eagerness in my voice surprises even me. What am I promising exactly?
