“You’re going whether I help or not, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Stubborn.”
“You knew that already.”
He mutters something under his breath—probably a curse—then offers his arm.
I take it.
My legs shake. My ribs ache. My chest feels tight with something that has nothing to do with bruises.
But I move anyway.
Because Kieran saved me.
And I need to see him.
Chapter 8
Kieran
Pain lances through my ribs when I reach for my shirt.
I don’t let it show.
I’ve endured worse. Survived worse. This is nothing—a bruise, swelling, the price of moving too slow.
The price of failing her.
I force my arms through the sleeves, fabric catching on bandages Malrik wrapped earlier despite my protests. He’d been methodical, silent, disapproving. Finn had offered to stabilize the bruising with chaos magic. I refused. Aspen suggested ice. I declined.
I don’t need help.
I never have.
I never deserved softness anyway.
I step toward the small mirror propped against the wall, assessing the damage. Bruising spreads across my ribs in dark, mottled patterns. Swelling beneath the bandages. Nothing broken, Malrik said. Just fractured pride and strained muscle.
I button the shirt slowly, each movement calculated to hide the way my breath catches. Control is discipline. Discipline is survival. Weakness invites chaos—and my chaos, not Finn’s, means danger.
Danger to her.
I will not be the reason she’s hurt again.
The memory replays whether I want it to or not.
The creature charging.
Her standing exposed, wings flared, shadows wild around her.
The sound when it hit me—bone against muscle, air punching from my lungs.
Then nothing.
I woke here. Bandaged. Bruised. Alive.
