Page 20 of Hunted By the Wraiths
I used the last of the synth-skin to cover it. Injected the antibiotic into his thigh.
There. Done. He wouldn’t die in the next six hours.
Probably.
From where I knelt beside the cot I was close enough to see the individual scales on his jaw. Close enough to see the thin line of fresh blood seeping through the synth-skin on his side.
Suddenly his scales went wild. Flickering. Shifting. A cascade of colors trying to break through and failing. Gray-green. Then emerald. Then gray-green. Emerald. Gray. Emerald. Gray.
Faster. Faster.
“Maris, please?—”
I lifted my hand toward his uninjured shoulder. Hesitated an inch away.
He caught my wrist. His grip was weak, shaking, but deliberate. And instead of pushing me away, he pulled my hand down. Pressed my palm against his shoulder. Held it there.
The scales under my palm flashed brilliant emerald.
And held.
I stared. The rest of his scales were still flickering, still fighting the gray conditioning. But under my hand, a patch of scales the size of my palm had locked into deep, jewel-toned emerald. The bonded color. The real color.
His grip on my wrist tightened. Holding my hand in place even as his breathing stopped. Then started again, ragged and desperate.
“Thoryn—”
“Don’t.” His voice was strangled. “Need to... see if...”
The emerald patch held for one second. Two. Three.
Then the gray slammed back down.
He made a sound like he’d been gut-shot. His entire body convulsed. His back arched off the cot. But his hand stayed locked around my wrist, keeping my palm pressed to his shoulder through the agony.
I tried to pull back. He held on for another heartbeat, then his grip failed and his hand fell away.
He collapsed against the wall, gasping. Shaking.
“I’m sorry,” I said. The words came out automatic. Useless.
“Don’t.” He forced his eyes open. “Don’t apologize.”
“I’m making it worse.”
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “You’re helping me fight it.”
I looked at my hand. At the place where I’d touched him. Where his scales had remembered what they were supposed to be.
The gray was the Consortium. The conditioning. The eight years of torture designed to break his bond.
The emerald was him. Was us. Was the bond trying to complete itself despite everything they’d done.
And when I touched him, my half of the bond answered his. My side was undamaged. Healthy. Reaching for him.
His side was broken. Conditioned to reject the connection. To punish him for wanting it.
But the emerald had flashed. Had held. Had proven that underneath the conditioning, the real bond was still there. Still fighting.
