Page 8 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
One still has a blade in his arm.
All the volunteers have gray eyes.
One is about to faint.
None of the volunteers are volunteers at all.
The room becomes a horror. All the fear, the mistreatment, the resentment, and the one girl who thinks she deserves this.
The reality of their forced hands is clear.
I stand, prepared to run, when Azaire walks to me. Scared, abused, and probably dying, he smiles at me. There’s blood on his teeth. He’s wobbly on his feet.
And he smiles.
I have no choice—how could there be a choice? I step toward him, holding onto his arm as I guide him to the seat next to me, before a large table. It’s scattered with scalpels and herbs—every ingredient I might need to heal him. I don’t know if I can.
He sits, tired and breathless. Somehow, he still chokes out, “Ms. Ferner said we’re partners.”
I nod, picking up his hands with my gloved ones—but I can’t take pain this strong without skin-to-skin contact.
Dropping his hand and peeling my glove from my fingers, I say, “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.”
In response, I feel him working up something like courage. A knot forms in my gut, begging to be untied. I reach out, coaxing it out of him. Untying the knot.
“The last thing I’m worried about is you touching me,” Azaire murmurs, and as I search for his gaze, it drops.
I place my attention back on my hands, raising them just over the bruises of his eyes.
It’s for you,I wish to say.I don’t touch you because I want to save you.
But my focus would be more worthwhile to him than a couple useless words.
My hands hover just above his body as I scan him, past the burning, jagged sensation that pierces through my side like a twisting knife. Past the throbbing around my eyes that intensifies with every heartbeat, as if it’s splitting open my skull from the pressure. Past the razors scraping against the tender lining of my throat.
The pain is unbearable—and Azaire carried it with a smile.
I close my eyes, steadying myself. My hands hang, trembling just above his skin, refusing to make contact. The sensation is electric, the weight of his suffering like an anvil against my chest.
Shuddering, I continue to pull the pain out of him and into me. The sharpness of his agony rips me open with every breath. Every pulse of pain is a new layer of destruction.
When I stifle a gasp, Azaire reaches to grab my hands.
I yank them away before I can hurt him further.
“Hey.”
My breath is ragged as I look around the room. The acute pain of Azaire has subsided, but there’s a room full of it, piercing into every crack that I’ve carved into myself.
Cool hands reach up to my sweat-soaked face, fingers guiding me back to a gray gaze.
“Eyes on me,” Azaire whispers, his voice soft like velvet.
My heart pounds as I obey, locking my gaze with his. His fingers remain steady, gripping my jaw, his thumb close to my lips. “Yeah, right here,” he breathes. “That’s good.”
Absently, I nod, staring at him as my head spins. Dizzy from the pain.
But Azaire’s pain is lessened. I’ve taken it. Looking into his eyes steadies me, shields me from the destruction all around.
