He stares at it.
Then drops it.
“No,” he says. “If I cannot defeat the Vorfaluka as I am, I deserve to fall.”
“That’s not noble,” I whisper. “That’s cowardice dressed in armor.”
His face tightens. “Do not?—”
“Iwill!You think being mortal is weakness? You think loving someone enough to fight for time—real time—makes you less? That’s the strongest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I can’t live like that,” he says.
“Then you’ll die like this.”
I turn before he sees the tears.
I storm out.
The door slams behind me with a thud that echoes through the trees. The cold hits like a slap—sharp and bitter. I suck in air until my lungs freeze and then exhale in a shudder. My hands tremble.
I stand under the dark sky, bare branches scraping like claws overhead. Somewhere, something moves in the underbrush. But I don’t care. Let it come.
Let it all come.
Inside the cabin, I hear a crash.
My heart stops.
I run.
He’s collapsed, face down, blood soaking the floorboards.
I spend the first twenty minutes after he hits the floor just trying to get him to breathe again.
He’s dead weight, all muscle and stone, limbs bent like a broken marionette. The blood’s pooled beneath him—too much. The stink of rot and copper and sour sweat makes my stomach twist, but I don’t stop. Ican’t.
“Come on, you asshole,” I whisper through gritted teeth, rolling him onto his back. His face is gray. Not just pale—gray.Like ash left in the rain. His tusks look too big for his mouth now, too heavy. His chest flutters under my hands like he’s trying to breathe through water.
I slap his face. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Another beat.
Then a cough.
Wet. Gurgling. Ugly.
But alive.
I choke on a laugh that’s mostly a sob and drag him to the couch again. It takes everything in me. My back pops. My legs scream. But I get him there. I strip the armor, throw it into a heap, and press a warm compress soaked in sage and salt to the wound.
He winces.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “Youshouldfeel that.”
He doesn’t respond.
For once, there’s no witty comeback. No growled flirtation. No proud grumbling about his warrior blood. Just silence. Ragged breathing. The faint rattle of death flirting with the idea of sticking around.
