When he returns, there’s a small tin of herbal resin in his palm.
His jaw is clenched tight, fury contorting his tanned face. The sky slowly darkens, clouds gathering overhead.
“Zevayr. Breathe,” I manage through gritted teeth.
“Iron. The arrow was coated with iron. It’s in your bloodstream, suppressing your powers. It’s why you can’t heal. Brace again.” Without warning, he presses the leather sheathe back between my teeth.
The wound burns as he rinses it with clean water. Tears stream down my cheeks anew as he seals it with strong-smelling resin. His hands are impossibly gentle as he pulls my tunic back into place.
He carries me to the blanket, cradling me to his chest like I’m something precious, settling down beside me.
“Sleep,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from my face. “The iron will be out of your system by morning.”
But his hand lingers, as if he’s not ready to let go.
Chapter Seventeen
Zevayrwaswrong.
The iron was not, in fact, out of my system by morning.
Or even the late afternoon.
I’m propped up against another tree, panting and sweating as if I’ve exerted myself a great deal, but Zevayr has carried me most of the day. We’ve managed to cover the same amount of ground as we would have if I had walked. I’m too wrung out to let that fact irk me.
He’s been exceedingly nice—too nice. No teasing, no calling me baby. There’s a crease in his brow that has taken permanent residence, and it deepens whenever he looks at me.
Like now.
“I need to check the wound,” he says, but I’m already lifting my tunic—a clean one he’d helped me change into this morning. Sweat dots my forehead, dripping into my eyes, but an unshakeable chill clings to me—early signs of infection. The jagged gash is inflamed at the edges, and Zevayr’s scowl deepens more than I thought possible.
“Maybe my power will be back tomorrow?”
He doesn’t look too sure. “Bastards must have double-coated the arrow. Maybe triple-coated. The effects shouldn’t last this long.”
I tug my tunic down and sit up, wincing at the stabbing pain in my side.
Zevayr doesn’t miss it. A muscle pulses in his jaw. “I should’ve killed them slower,” he growls.
“Howdidyou kill them?” The question has been on my mind, but the aching pain in my side has taken forefront. “You didn’t summon lightning.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifts my tunic back up with a casual familiarity that feels entirely too intimate. He takes his time massaging a minty ointment into my skin around the edges of the wound.
“There are small particles of lightning in the air,” he says. “Sometimes more, sometimes less, but always present. I harnessed those to kill them.”
Besides Faerataak the Mighty, I’ve never heard of arealstormwielder with such an ability, not in all my years of healing or studying.
“Have you—have you used it in battle?”
He swallows hard. His gaze cuts to me for a heartbeat before settling back on my wound. “Just once. I can’t do it at will. Only when I’m enraged—too far gone to think. It’s like something else unlocks inside me.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know what to do with that piece of information—that seeing me hurt brought him to a level of anger he’d only experienced once before.
I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. But the words tumble out anyway. “Was that when Lev died?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Yes.”
