Kaz wanted to be better, he did, but as Inej cried out in pain from her injuries—he would gut the slaver who did this to her, and he would spread the man’s entrails out as a doormat in front of the Crow Club for all of the Dregs to wipe their feet on—her voice breaking as she asked him to remove the blade that had broken off inside of her, unable to do so herself with her broken arm, his hands shook uncontrollably and blackness threatened to overwhelm his mind.

Kaz had tried so hard to be better; he could go a whole day—sometimes several days—without his gloves, and he’d kept them off today for her, so she would see that he wasn’t wearing all of his armor, that he wanted to be the man she wanted him to be.

But he couldn’t be, and he balled his fists against his own weakness, even as he drew in shuddering breaths that tasted of salt and rot.