QUINN
My ears were no longer tuned for danger. They were listening for breath. Mav lay motionless, one arm bent above his head, the other resting loose at his side. His shirt had been removed; a clean white bandage bound his ribs, already spotted through with red. Even in unconsciousness, he looked…present. Grounded. As though the world would bend about him before he would bow to it. I knelt back on my heels, worrying the skin beside my nails.
He had lost so much blood.
The others had done what they could. Thistle stitched the worst of it. Branrir boiled water. Vesper contributed a withering glare and several unhelpful predictions about when Mav would die. And I stayed at Mav’s side, useless, steady only by sheer force of will.
Please wake. Open your eyes.
My mind reached for a spell I had not used in years, something to lessen his pain—or at least his perception of it. Although I knew my Twilight gift could not command the body in the same manner in which it could command the mind. The magicdid not answer. Perhaps it knew what I could not yet say: this was not a matter of power. This was presence. And I could not lose his.
A sharp pop flared from the fire, startling me.
A low groan. The faintest shift of muscle. His brow creased; his jaw flexed. Lashes fluttered and lifted. Mav’s hazel eyes were unfocused but open.
“Hey, princess,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel and unmistakably his.
“I am not a—” My voice broke on the old protest, breathless and foolish. “Thank the Saints. You are awake.”
I leaned forward without thought, half-turned toward him before my gaze found the thick white wrap at his ribs. He was shirtless. Pale. Vulnerable in a way he seldom permitted.
“My apologies,” I said, quieter now, brittle at the edges. “We removed your shirt to treat the wound.”
His mouth tilted, weary yet amused. “You’re always trying to undress me.”
Huffing a laugh, I smiled, grateful for the levity. His teasing loosened the tight knot of worry that had sat heavy in my stomach since he was wounded. I rolled my eyes for his benefit.
“How is it that you nearly die and yet remain insufferable?” I quipped.
His eyes drifted closed; the smile stayed. I sat back, drawing my knees to my chest, and watched the rise and fall of his breath.
Mav was alive.
For the moment, that was enough. I had not realized how long I had been holding my breath until it left me—ragged and raw, a creature caged too long. My hands still shook. Not from anxiety alone, but from all the feelings I had locked behind my teeth. Relief can be just as violent as fear.
Thistle reappeared with a steaming tin cup in one hand and a small clay pot in the other. The paste within was a sickly green-gray and smelled as though despair had been simmered with sulfur.
She passed me the mug. “For him. Infection. And this—” she pried the lid free, “—goes on the wound.”
Mav caught sight and scent of the mixture with a grimace. “That smells like something you scraped off a bog witch’s boot.”
“It works,” Thistle said briskly, already at his side. “Try not to whine. It ruins the stoic-warrior aesthetic.”
Thistle set down both containers and lifted the bandage at Mav’s side. She dipped two fingers into the paste and smoothed it over the gash. He hissed, flinched, and gripped the edge of the bedroll.
“Seven hells,” he ground out. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“You’re being a baby,” Thistle replied, unmoved. “Quinn, talk to him. Distract him.”
“I—what?” I blinked, clinging to the tin cup as though it might instruct me. “I do not know what to say.” This part of relationships has always eluded me—the soft part. I could wield a spell, outlast a curse, and endure the geography of exile. It had never felt safe to place gentle words where they were needed.
“Anything. A story. A compliment. An insult. Speak, before he starts composing his own epitaph,” Thistle urged.
I hesitated, heart fluttering high in my throat. “You are…a very good dancer.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. His head tipped toward me, curiosity peeking through the pain.
“How did you learn?” I asked.
