Page 78 of The Night Prince

“Are you conscious?” I whisper.

“Mm,” he mumbles.

His arm is like a block of ice against my torso. If I can’t heal him, we’re both going to die. I steady my racing heart. “I assume you have the antidote in your pack?”

He grunts, which I take for a yes.

“Okay.” I lead the horse toward the chapel, and stop by the arched door. There are more stars and crescent moons carved into the stone around it. This is one of Night’s chapels.

Blake’s arm is heavy as I move it to his side. He slumps as I slide onto the path. My knees buckle, and I put my hand on the side of the horse to right myself. My shoulder brushes Blake’s leg. I take a deep breath.

“Come on,” I say.

I hold out my hand, but he manages to slide down without my assistance. Dry leaves crunch beneath his boots as he lands.

“Fuck. I feel like shit.” He knocks into my shoulder as he stumbles. He puts a palm on the chapel wall and bends forward. Dark strands of hair cling to his forehead, and his skin is as pale as moonlight.

I hurry to the saddle, and root around in his pack. I pull out the black case I’ve seen him use to heal people. I turn back to him. He leans against the chapel wall with a hand clamped over his shoulder. His head is arched back against the stone, exposing his throat. Blood spills between his fingers and pools on the flagstones at his feet. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable before.

I approach him, and he slings his arm over my shoulder. My hand around his waist, I nudge open the door and lead him inside. It closes behind us.

Inside, a few rows of pews lead to a stone altar. Above it, a stained-glass window depicts a key with crescent moons in the bow. Silver moonlight shines through it and creates a puddle of faint light on the flagstones. The air is thick with must.

“Wash your hands.” Blake nods at a stone font by the entrance. I wash my hands thoroughly in the cold water whilehe makes his way down the aisle. I shake off the water, then hurry after him and hook an arm around his waist as he starts to stumble.

“Here.” I put my hands on his hips, and turn him so he’s facing me. I nudge him back against the altar. My knuckles brush against his chest, then torso, as I unfasten his buttons. His chin dips, and I feel his gaze on my face.

“How did you know where I was?” I ask.

“I have a source in Madadh-allaidh.”

“Magnus?” I can’t stop my mouth from pinching in disapproval.

The corner of his lip lifts slightly. “You’ve been talking to Elsie.”

I undo the last button, and his shirt hangs open. Pale lines mark his chest, and there’s a long curved scar near the sharp V of his right hip. A line of dark hair leads down into his breeches.

“Whenever you’re done admiring me...” mumbles Blake.

I fight my flush as I help him slide his good arm out of his sleeve. I peel the blood-soaked fabric off his injured shoulder, then drop it onto the altar. He peers down at the two holes in his upper arm, both pumping out hot blood.

“Exit wounds. The bullets aren’t inside me, at least. There’s a tourniquet and syringe with the antidote in it in my pack,” he says, and I nod.

I shuffle past him, and unfasten his case. It folds out and there are a range of scalpels, small vials, and a syringe arranged on one side. A leather strap, a roll of gauze, and a needle andthread are stored in the other. I pull out the strap, the gauze, and the syringe. It’s filled with transparent liquid.

“Good,” he says. “Find a vein.”

He offers me his good arm. I wrap the strip of fabric around his bicep, and try not to think about how hard it is as my fingers brush against the muscle. As I tighten the tourniquet, veins bulge down the length of his forearm. I grab the syringe and slide the needle into one of them. I push the plunger, and Blake makes a low noise and tips back his head as the antidote enters his system. I pull it out, and place it on the altar beside him.

“There,” I say. “I’ll bandage—”

A low, feral growl vibrates in his chest. It echoes around the darkness and stirs the shadows. His face transforms and becomes cold. The wolf blazes in his eyes.

My left arm drops, useless, to my side. White-hot phantom pain spreads from my shoulder, and I feel blood that is not there pumping out of invisible wounds. A soft breath escapes my lips. As he loses his grip on the bond, his senses flood me. His emotions no longer make sense; they’re pure animal. A word vibrates along the thread between us like a growl.

Hunt.

I stagger back. It’s the antidote that is working, provoking his wolf, but I hadn’t expected him to react like this. Callum didn’t when he took the antidote. I feel as if I’m facing a wounded animal, not a man.

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