Between Tides Thunder(30)

“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




ZEVAYR WAS WRONG.

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.

“How did you 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 a real stormwielder 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.”


The next day passes the same—Zevayr carrying me through this never-ending forest as we get closer and closer to leaving Rebellion territory. Fever blazes through my body, trapping in a haze that swallows most of the day. By the time Zevayr stops for the night, I’m surprised his teeth haven’t cracked from how hard his jaw is clenched.

Wordlessly, he lifts my tunic. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. I glance down and realize why.

The wound is swollen, angry red starbursts radiating out across my torso. I stretch slightly, and the resin seal cracks easily, yellowish pus clinging to the edges like molten wax. A foul, metallic stench curls into the air—iron and rot, sharp enough to sting my nose.

His eyes are panicked. “Try to heal yourself,” he rasps, voice wavering.

I call to my power, but the block is still there. And even if it weren’t—the infection has weakened me significantly. Even if all the iron had left my system, I doubt I’d have the reserves to heal myself.

“Skies,” Zevayr curses. He rakes a violent hand through his dark locks, and when that doesn’t soothe him, he paces the campsite like a feral arctic wolf.

I watch him, too weak to do anything else.

He stops mid-step and tilts his face to the sky, as if asking for strength. His steps are measured when he returns and crouches to my level.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, gray eyes fixing again on my infected wound.

“Are you familiar with … power sharing?” he asks quietly. His eyes are dark and ringed with panic.

A grimace tugs at my lips as I try to sit up, but darkness pools at the edge of my vision. The world tilts, and I pitch sideways before Zevayr catches me. My hands tremble helplessly, the wound gone completely numb. That isn’t a good sign.

“There was a man and woman,” I rasp. My voice is slow. Labored. “Caught power sharing. It’s forbidden. Too much power to one person. Unnatural. Dangerous.”