I popped the cork off and sniffed. The scent was more vibrant than I expected, like citrus and spice. But ones that had been left to erode in everlasting devastation.
His hands trembled so violently I thought he’d shatter the bottle before I could even pass it to him. I couldn’t risk it.
My arm slipped around his waist, pulling him into me, steadying him, holding the vial to his lips myself.
“You’re okay, Wells,” I murmured. “You’re going to be okay.”
Gods, let it be true.
His head lolled as he lost the strength to lift it. I wasn’t sure he even had enough left to swallow on his own. Tears threatened my eyes, warm and guilty, mirroring the red seeping from his.
I swallowed them down. I really needed to punch someone soon.
There was no label, no dosage. Just a guessing game. And time had already left us. I drew a breath. “Forgive me.”
My fingers gripped the hair at the back of his skull, yanking his head up toward the sky, toward the Gods who refused to look.
His mouth hung open, stained from defeat, but the elixir washed some of the shock from his face.
He swallowed once. Twice. Until not even a drip was left.
I let go and his body sagged against me, his head dropping forward. For the first time in minutes, he dragged a full breath into his lungs. A cough tore through him, spraying a fine mist of antivenom and spit across my face.
I gasped, jerking back. I didn’t love that it burned.
The sting vanished as quickly as it came. My fingers skated over my skin, searching for a mark. For punishment. For proof.
Nothing.
Wells exhaled, a sound like release, like relief.
He stayed on his knees, though his hands had gone steady, the tremble beginning to quiet. We stared at one another for a moment, his eyes still bloodshot, our souls worse off.
Then he glanced toward the elixir, and I held out the empty vial. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how much to give you.” He took it, fingers rolling the glass. “I’ll pay Gemma to make you more,” I added. “Assuming that’s who made it.”
He cleared his throat, wavering from his knees to his feet with a wince. “No,” he rasped. The bottle clinked back into his satchel. “That’s okay, she doesn’t charge for it.”
His voice was broken, like he had been screaming the entire time, and I had only caught the silence after.
I turned away, fingers knotting around my bracelet. I couldn’t bear the burden of his gaze, brown and harrowing as it was.
“Are you sure you’re okay to stand?” I asked. His skin was still pallid, sweat gleaming across his brow. I gestured back toward the ground. “We can sit for a while.”
He waved me off, hand brushing his face. Poison-stained blood vanished with the sweep of his magic. “All good. Promise.”
Unfortunate. But tactful.
An ache twisted against my insides as I nodded. Because we were both comfortable pretending that the past had been buried. Pretending today hadn’t split it open again.
My mouth opened, to apologize, to beg forgiveness, to ask if he was really okay, but nothing came.
His brows narrowed, confused, and so tired.
Why was this so hard?
Ifeltguilty,feltresponsible. But I also felt…afraid. Afraid he wouldn’t accept what I needed to say. Afraid he only dealt with me because he had to, not because he wanted to.
Maybe that was the rift between us, the reason he never asked for an apology. He never wanted one. Because, somewhere deep down, he’d already decided he would never forgive me.
