Bob hulks beside her, shaking with rage, edges so sharp they cut the air.
I fall to my knees beside her, hands hovering over her face because I don’t know where to touch, where it’s safe, where I won’t hurt her.
Then shadows curl around her—dark, wrong, not hers.
They move differently. Heavier. Tainted at the edges.
Darian’s.
The air even smells wrong—metallic and cold.
They press close to her skin like they’re trying to warm her. Comfort her.
Bob surges forward, doubling in size, snarling as he blocks them.
But the shadows don’t fight back. Don’t lash out.
They just… reach for her. Like they’re begging.
I look back.
Darian’s still bound, kneeling in the mud fifty feet away. His hands are tied behind his back. But his face—
Raw. Desperate. Terrified.
His shadows tremble between us, caught between her and him, not knowing where to go.
“Get themoffher,” I snarl.
Malrik’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Torric—”
“I said get them—”
“They’re not hurting her.” Malrik’s voice is quiet. Certain. “Look.”
The shadows settle against her ribs in a way that doesn’t seem natural. Warmth bleeds through where they touch.
A faint pulse thumps through them—like a heartbeat that isn’t hers.
Her breathing steadies. Deepens.
Color returns to her face.
I hate that he’s helping.
I hate that she needs it.
I hate that I’m grateful for it anyway.
My lungs finally unlock.
I slump forward, pressing my forehead to her shoulder.
“Never—fucking—do that again.”
My hands are shaking.
Fire flickers back to life along my knuckles—weak, guttering, but there.
