Zane hit the ground hard.
I was already moving, catching the tail end of his fall so his head didn’t crack against the floor. His body slumped against me like a rag doll, limp and all deadweight. Pale. Sweat slicked his hairline, his mouth slightly parted, his crimson lashes a dark fan against his freckles.
My hand was on his throat before I registered it. Pulse rapid, but steady. Lungs expanding, chest rising and falling. No seizure. No bleeding from his eyes. No rupture in the brain.
Still, my throat burned.
“It’s fine. This is normal. He’s done this before.”
But no matter how many times I told myself that, the sight of him like this always made my stomach twist.
“Damnation.” I exhaled sharply through my nose, shifting my grip under his arms so I could haul him up. “You always push too hard, you dumb bastard.”
His head lolled against my shoulder like a child’s, utterly gone.
“Too deep a dive for too long. You know better than this.”
From the basement, I heard a rattling wail, and a snarl bubbled in my throat. I didn’t even realize I’d bared my teeth until my hand clenched into a fist. I forced it open. Forced myself to breathe. Koa was taking care of her, and later I’d take care of him. For now—
Get your brother off the damn floor.
I shouldered Zane’s weight and carried him out of the security room and down the hall to the library. He wasn’t heavy, not to me, but he wasmine, and that made it unbearable. He wasn’t fragile, but he felt it.
“It’s normal,” I reminded myself again. “Happens sometimes. Deep dives pull him under. He’ll wake up in a few hours, grinning like a jackal, and start talking shit like nothing happened. It’s fine.”
Didn’t mean my heart wasn’t a vice in my chest.
I kicked the library door open and lowered him onto one of the large leather couches, adjusting his limbs carefully so nothing was crimped or twisted. My hands didn’t stop moving, cataloguing, assessing. Just as he was in the security room: Skin warm, but clammy. Heart rate high, but consistent. No tremors, no seizure. No sign of brain hemorrhage from psionic strain.
“You always crawl out of everything like some moon-damn roach.” I ran the heel of my palm down my jaw as I stepped back. “You’re fine. Youhaveto be. Because if you’re not…”
I didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t. The idea of being too late, of failing them, was a weight I couldn’t carry and still breathe.
I automatically calculated what came next. Zane would wake up cold, shaky, dehydrated. I needed carbs, electrolytes, water. Pain meds on hand in case the migraine hit hard. I needed to—
He mumbled something incoherent, his hand twitching like he was reaching for something.
“Seri,” he mouthed.
Of course.
Our little wife. Our heart. Even unconscious, he wanted her, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
We all were.
I turned to the window seat, where she was sound asleep, her curls in a tangle over the cushions, her cheek pressed to her folded hands. Steve, Zane’s hoodie, swallowed her, hanging down to her knees. She looked soft. Small. Unbearably fragile.
Andsanguine mortis, how it terrified me that I might fail her. That I might be too late, just once, and lose her forever.
Brumous lay on the floor at her feet. As I approached, his blue eyes snapped up, narrowed at me.
Don’t drop her,they warned,or I’ll rip your throat out.
I stopped, one hand flexing at my side.
“Noted.”
Brumous didn’t blink.
