Page 21 of The Enemy's Daughter

“I need you to find a connection between us. Usually it’s emotional or physical—so you could think about how close we are right now. Or maybe... maybe think about the weight of my hand.” Hishand seems to shake as it floats down to take my fingers. “What do I feel like to you?”

He has to be joking. I can barely breathe.

But he stares into my eyes, waiting for me to answer.

So I try to focus. To do what he’s asking. His skin is cool and dry and such a relief from the burning fire inside me. There’s a measure of comfort in that simple touch.

Something sharp stabs my middle, a flicker of terror so potent I almost cry out. It disappears immediately, leaving a painful residue in its wake. What was that? Although I’m intimately familiar with fear by now, this didn’t feel like my own.

Tristan’s eyes go big, amazed. “That’s it. Go back to that, but go further.” His lips tighten when I don’t understand. “I know this sounds like madness, but you connected to me for a moment. I need you to do it again, but stay there. Go deeper if you can.”

It’s like he’s speaking another language.

“Let’s try this.” His hand moves from simply gripping mine to weaving our fingers together. He squeezes.

His question hovers between us.What do I feel like to you?

I turn my focus to his strong fingers. His cool skin. But also the lifeline it represents.I don’t want him to let go.

Again, I’m hit with a disturbance, a wild rapid of crashing emotions. Only this time, it isn’t all fear. There’s a fragment of hope as well.

“There you are,” he whispers. His singing starts up again.

Instantly, I feel a change on the inside. The rope constricting my chest unknots an inch.

Give me more.

Tristan’s voice grows more urgent, and I focus on it. Absorb it. If being present while he sings over me will ease my pain, I want it.

My throat opens.

I roll slightly into Tristan, drawing our hands tighter to my chest, clinging to him like a drowning person desperate to stay afloat. The less my lungs have to fight for air, the more I give him. Welcome him. Drink in the relief.

“That’s right.” He inhales deeply, but when he sings again, it’s quieter.

There’s a series of pops inside my chest, and for the first time in an eternity, my lungs quench their thirst for air. My relief is so drastic, I bask in it. Bathe in the euphoria of it.

Mum was right about one thing: the Kingsland does have magic, and I don’t understand it at all, but it’s magnificent.

Tristan’s hand trembles in mine. A second later, his head falls to the crook of my neck. He slumps over.

“Tristan?”

He doesn’t answer.

Lifting his head with my hands, my heart trips at what I see. The skin beneath his eyes has gone dark. His lips are a deathly shade of blue.

With a grunt, I roll him awkwardly onto his back and stare in horror. I pull my hand out from under him and find it covered in blood. A wound has opened up on his lower back, just above his hip. Another on his elbow—where I was shot in the arm.

What the ever-loving fates is going on?

Tristan’s eyes roll up as air wheezes in and out of his throat. He is going to die.

Why would he do this?

Scrambling off the bed, I yank open the door, prepared to yell for help.

“What is it?” Vador pushes off from the wall in front of me. He takes one look at my face and strides past me into the room.

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