"The bond. I can feel something." She pressed a hand to her chest. "Like there's a thread between us. But I don't understand it yet. Show me."
Dante hesitated. Opening the bond fully would expose everything. His exhaustion, his lingering fear, what her death had done to him.
But she was asking. And he'd already laid himself bare in every other way.
He slowly opened his side of the connection.
Her vitals, strong and steady—the exhaustion in her muscles that would fade with rest, the confusion still lingering. And beneath it all, the core of who she was. Her soul wrapped in his shadows, anchored by his power.
Her eyes widened. Her hand pressed harder against her chest.
"I can feel you," she breathed. "Your presence. Like you're inside me."
"Yes."
"And you can feel me the same way?"
"Yes." Always. Forever. He would feel her like his own heartbeat. Would know if she was hurt, scared, or safe.
She stared at him, her chin lifting slightly as understanding settled over her features.
"We can't be separated," she said. "Can we? Not really. Not anymore."
"No." He held her gaze. "Even if we're in different realms. Different courts. I'll always know where you are. How you are. And you'll know the same about me."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
She should look scared. Trapped. Instead, her smile widened, and the frozen thing that had lived in his chest for two days finally cracked apart.
"Good," she said again. Then grimaced. "Though right now I feel disgusting. Two days unconscious probably means I smell terrible."
The shift caught him off guard. From profound connection to practical concerns in a heartbeat. But that was Brynn. Facing down death and eternity with the same attitude she'd use for a sticky lock.
"You want to clean up?" he asked.
"Desperately. But..." She tested her legs, managed to move them, but the weakness was obvious. "I don't think I can walk yet."
"I'll help."
"Dante, you barely look like you can stand?—"
"Let me take care of you." He met her gaze, let her see how much he needed this. The desperate urge to do something, anything, to prove she was really here. "Please."
Her expression softened. The protest died on her lips.
"Alright," she said quietly.
He stood. His legs protested after two days in that chair. He pulled back the blankets, then bent and lifted her.
The weight of her in his arms. The warmth of her body againsthis chest. The way her head fit perfectly against his shoulder. He'd carried her before, but never like this. Never after two days of watching her breathe and being unable to touch her, help her, do anything but count breaths and pray to gods he didn't believe in. She was lighter than she should be, and he filed that away. Something to fix. Food, water, rest. He would take care of all of it.
Her arms came around his neck. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest.
"You know," she murmured, "I could probably walk with help."
"Indulge me."
