I help him peel off his shirt. The fabric is soaked, clinging to his skin, and I try not to notice the way his muscles shift beneathmy fingers. Try not to feel the bond singing with approval at every point of contact.
The wound is a long gash along his right bicep, maybe four inches. Not deep, but jagged. Bleeding sluggishly. Without treatment, it’ll get infected down here in the damp.
“This needs to be sealed,” I say, keeping my voice clinical. Diplomatic. As if my hands aren’t shaking. “Cauterized.”
He glances over his shoulder, and I see understanding dawn in those gray-green eyes. “Your lightning.”
“Carefully controlled. I can seal the flesh, prevent infection.” I meet his gaze. “But it’s going to hurt.”
“Everything hurts.” He says it quietly, and I know he’s not talking about the wound. “Do it.”
I settle onto the stone shelf beside him, positioning myself to reach the injury. This close, I can smell river water and ozone clinging to his skin. Can see the way his scales catch the bioluminescent light, creating shifting patterns of blue and green. Can feel the bond thrumming between us, aware of every breath, every heartbeat.
Focus.
I call the lightning—just a thread of it, concentrated at my fingertip. The charge dances there, golden and precise, hot enough to seal but controlled enough not to burn unnecessarily. This is delicate work. The kind of thing that requires absolute concentration.
Which is why I shouldn’t be noticing the way his breath catches when I place my other hand on his shoulder to steady myself.
“Ready?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
He nods.
I press the lightning to the wound.
He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. The smell of burning flesh fills the small space—acrid, unpleasant—but Ikeep the charge steady, sealing the edges of the torn skin. The bond carries his pain to me, sharp and bright, and I have to fight not to pull back reflexively.
“Almost done,” I murmur, moving along the length of the gash. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m a Sentinel. I’ve had worse.”
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You’re very careful with that.”
“With what?”
“The lightning. You could kill with it. Instead, you heal.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “I’m a diplomat, remember? I prefer fixing things to breaking them.”
“You broke six hunters pretty thoroughly back there.”
“That was different. That was—” I pause, searching for words. “That was us. Together.”
The lightning finishes its work. I pull back, examining the sealed wound. It’s not pretty—red and raw—but it’s clean. It won’t fester.
But I don’t move away. Can’t make myself.
Because Torin has turned to face me, and suddenly we’re so close I can count the different shades of green in his eyes. Can see the slight flare of his gills as he breathes. Can feel the bond pulled taut between us like a wire stretched to breaking.
“Zara.” My name is half warning, half prayer.
“We need to talk about what happened.” I keep my voice steady. Professional. “Back in the reed bed. When our magics?—”
“I know what happened.”
“It shouldn’t be possible. Storm Eagle lightning and Deep Runner water—they’re opposing elements. They should cancel each other out, or?—”
