“Lana.” Onin crosses his other pair of arms.
That means I need to pay attention. Onin has more patience than any instructor at this school, and if I get on his bad side, I don’t know if there’s any coming back from that.
“Keep your eyes on the wound. Think about it. Think about skin and blood and sinew and vessels.”
I stare at the slice through his tan skin, the way the blade stayed straight until the very end when he curved it toward himself just a hair. “You shouldn’t’ve cut so deep.”
“You need to learn.” I can feel Jeren’s dark eyes on me, and his belief in me flickers down the bond, bringing both confidence and pressure with it.
“I can learn on scratches. Gouges are unnecessary.”
“This isn’t a gouge.” He leans closer his lips feathering against my ear. “It’s art.”
Why is that so hot?
I press my palm to his cheek and gently push him away. “Not helping.”
He settles back on his stool, his other elbow casually propped on the wide desk. “Go on.”
“Don’t I need Kyte for this?” I look up at Onin.
He gives me a brief head shake. All business.
“Okay, fine.” I stand and shake out my hands. “I’ve got this.”
Cells knitting together. Blood returning to the veins. Everything going back where it belongs. I try to visualize all of that, as if the cut is happening in reverse. I even hold a hand out over the injury, thinking maybe I need to do the magic like Elsa.
Concentrating, I close my eyes and will Jeren to heal. Other thoughts try to intrude—flashes of Warverian, of my mother’s fists, of Van attacking me after school, of Ilwen’s screeched challenge. I try to push them down and think only of his arm. Of fixing my Alpha and stopping the pain. After several seconds of holding my breath, I crack my eyes open and look down.
My mouth drops open. “Is it … bigger now?” I peer at the wider wound, the edges somehow bloodier than before.
Onin scratches his chin. “This is going to take more work than I thought.”
I can’t stop my eyes from watering as I look at Jeren. “I’m sorry. That had to hurt. I’m really sorry.”
He reaches out and grips my waist, then pulls me close. “You can do this. We’ll practice as much as we need to, okay? And I’m fine. This is nothing at all. Remember the flotilla, the games I used to play with the other kids on the edges of engine boosters?”
I swallow my tears and take a deep breath. “Yes. That was stupid of you.” I can see him now, young Jeren jumping back and forth between spinning, bladed turbines. He survived, but not unscathed. Some of the other foolish kids weren’t so lucky.
“It was stupid. I agree. But I’m alive, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Thank god.” I rethink it. “Or the Pillars. No one’s really explained them to me.”
“They are inscrutable. No explanation can possibly define them.” Jeren sits me back on my feet and gestures to his arm. “Try again.”
“What if I hurt you?” I twist my fingers together.
“Then maybe I’ll ask Ceredes to punish you while I watch.”
Hot. Flash.
Onin clears his throat for about the sixth time. “Try it again, Lana. Clear your mind. Focus only on healing.”
“I can do this. I’m a healer.” I nod and do the Elsa hand again. Focus, focus, focus. But what if I didn’t pick up that trait from Kyte? What if I’m not capable of fixing this? Or of repelling the Sentients or of defending myself in the duel or the war, or what if I lose one of my Alphas, or—my thoughts barrel away from me again into worst-case-scenario territory.
When a clearly amused Jeren says, “Wow, look at all that blood,” Onin groans, and I decide that maybe I’m not much of a healer after all.
* * *
