I drop her pack against the wall and put the sample pouch beside it, wrapped and sealed. She sees exactly where I place it. Within reach. Not hidden. Not taken. Her gaze flicks back to mine.
“Sit,” I say again.
“I can stand while you check the passage.”
“You can bleed standing or bleed sitting. Sitting wastes less.”
Her eyes narrow. “That is a disgusting argument.”
“Effective.”
“Unfortunately.”
She lowers herself onto a curved stone shelf with controlled hatred. Her wounded arm stays pinned against her body. Blood slides between her fingers, down her wrist. My claws flex. Red breathes harder at the edges of my sight.
No. Not now. Not with her watching. Not with her needing precision.
I kneel in front of her.
The hollow is dim, lit only by the sample’s faint blue pulse through its wrap. The light stains the lower wall and catches on the blood at her wrist, turning the red almost black.
“Let me see,” I say.
Sera’s hand tightens over the wound. “It’s a scratch.”
“It is bleeding through your fingers.”
“Large scratch.”
“Sera.”
She looks away. Pain I expected. Fear I expected. Shame, again, I hate.
“I need to know if the gray thing left anything in the cut,” I say.
Her gaze snaps back. Good. Practical fear is easier for her to accept than care.
“Residue?”
“Maybe.”
“Poison?”
“I do not know.”
Her jaw tightens. “You are very bad at soothing.”
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“That is also bad soothing.”
“Let me see.”
One beat. Then she removes her hand.
The wound opens along the outside of her forearm, from wrist to below elbow. Shallow in places. Deeper near the middle where the ash-gray strand struck hardest. Blood wells in a clean red line except for three small marks along the center, each edged with faint gray dust.
My vision tunnels. Something inside me surges toward those marks with a violence that wants to tear the wound from her body and take it into mine.
