But the memory of that absolute emptiness—the silence where she should have been—still left him gasping, as if the air itself had been ripped away.
With gratitude to whichever gods still listened, he kissed her healed knuckles then pressed his brow to her fingers, holding on, afraid that if he let go, she might somehow slip away from him.
Again.
While the thread of their bond was too faint to feel much more than a tinge of her warmth, he’d rather that than nothing at all.
“Sire,” Meliora murmured with a soft, knowing chuckle, and he looked up as she put Ash’s wrapped arm in a sling. “Haveyou forgotten? Your bloodline belongs to the gods. With your claim mark, she now carries your gifts—at least some of them. It strengthens her. See how the bruises on her fade already, hmm?”
Her gnarled fingers traced the compression bandage around Ash’s ribs, her smile dimming. “But the arm and ribs will still need a few days.”
Race blinked. Faced with Ash’s healing skin, tears stung his eyes. He thanked every damn star still burning for this miracle.
He rose to retrieve one of his shirts from her backpack. He never bothered much about clothes before, but his ever-efficient mate made sure he hadproperthings—more than the usual conjured-up cotton pants after a shift.
Carefully, he put the t-shirt on her, then got out of Meliora’s way as the woman tidied up. He tossed Ash’s ruined clothes in the pot-bellied fireplace in the corner and crossed to the window, inhaling a deep breath?—
His Guardian senses flared. Something felt off. He scanned the street below. Shadows pooled thick between the lamplights. One of them moved. Shit.
“I’ll be back.”
He was out the door in seconds, pounding the steps, fury flaring as he hit the street. But when he reached the spot?—
Nothing.
Only silence and his own reflection in the wet cobbles.
He stood there, chest heaving, the night wind slashing coldly at him.
Malcarion was gone.
Vaesarra was dead.
Who the fuck in all the realms was watching them now?
Warmth surrounded Ash as she drifted back to awareness. The excruciating agony had dulled to a faint ache, a lingering ghost of pain that told her she was, miraculously, still alive. She inhaled deeply?—
“Ouch.” She winced, her ribs protesting.
“Ash?”
That voice,hisvoice, made her heart soar. She forced her eyelids open, burgundy tenderness filling her world. He knelt near the bed. Then it all tumbled free—Vaesarra’s treachery, the fall, winds screaming?—
“Race!” she gasped and pushed up, or tried to, only to find out she couldn’t. Her left arm was in a sling, her ribs bound tight.
“Don’t strain yourself,” he ordered, gently easing her up and tucking pillows behind her.
She caught his hand. “Race?—”
“Easy, heart-fire.” He sat near her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “You’re healing fast, that’s good.”
She was? “How long was I out for, anyway?”
“Anyway?” He arched an eyebrow. “Since yesterday afternoon.”
“What? It feels like weeks—Vaesarra?” she rasped, her stomach twisting.
His mouth tightened. A dark anger blazed for a second behind those crimson depths. “Dead.”
