Page 160

She’sworried.

“Let me look at it,” she says softly, gaze flicking to mine like she expects resistance.

I should refuse. My whole nature rises up to do it—to scoff, to sneer, to say something cruel and cutting just to remind her what I am. But the words stick behind my teeth. They’re uselesswhen she’s looking at me like that. Like I’m worth a second glance. Like her fingers weren’t meant to press gently against my ruined skin but against my soul.

“I’ll live,” I mutter instead, which is neither consent nor denial. Just noise.

She shakes her head, already tugging the strap of my jacket down, blood wet between her fingers. The sting is immediate as air kisses the wound, but I grit my teeth through it, watching the way her jaw tenses. Her hair’s a mess, tangled and windblown. She has dried blood on her cheek that isn’t hers. She hasn’t rested in days.

And still, she touches me like I matter.

She doesn’t speak while she inspects the damage—Luna knows better than to coddle. Her silence is its own kind of intimacy, a steady presence that roots under the armor I wear like a second skin. And gods, I want her to stop. I want her to keep going. I want—

“You should’ve said something,” she murmurs, not looking at me.

Her fingers hover over the broken shaft of the arrow embedded deep, the barbed tip still lodged in the muscle. A clean break, if such a thing exists. I can feel the heat radiating through my back, the burn of the wound held together by sheer force of will—and her presence, grounding and infuriating in the same breath.

“I need to pull it out,” she says, quieter now.

“I’m not going to scream if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She snorts—actually snorts—as if I’ve said something ridiculous. Maybe I have.

“You’re an idiot.”

“There it is,” I murmur, almost smiling.

She doesn’t smile back. Her lips press together in a hard line as her hand steadies on my shoulder, and with her other, she gripsthe shaft of the arrow and yanks. It’s clean and fast. A sharp, bright pain lances through my entire arm, down my spine—but I don’t make a sound.

I bleed. And she catches the blood with a strip of cloth like it matters. Like I’m not some weapon wrapped in skin. Like I’m worth the softness in her hands.

The others are behind us, gathering packs, muttering strategies, sharpening weapons. Orin speaks quietly to Riven, heads turned to the treeline like they can feel something coming. I know I can. The pressure in the air is shifting again.

But all I can focus on is her.

Luna presses the cloth harder to my shoulder and looks up at me, her mouth twitching like she wants to say something—something that would unravel me.

“Why?” I ask before she can. The word is sharp. Ugly.Desperate.

“Why what?” she says, but she knows.

“Why care?”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Her voice is steady when she answers.

“Because even monsters bleed.”

The words gut me. Not because they’re cruel. But because they’re kind.

I want to kiss her. I want to hate her. I want to tell her that she’s the only thing in this cursed realm that makes me feelanything—but I say nothing. Because it’s not time. Because I’ll break it if I touch it. Because I’m not ready for her to know that I alreadyhavebent the knee in my own damn way.

She steps back. I’m colder for it. Like she left a part of herself there, embedded just beneath my ribs. And no matter how far we go, I’ll carry that with me. And gods help anyone who tries to take it from me.

There’s no time for softness, no time to savor the delicate weight of her attention—even though it presses into me deeper than the arrow ever did. I take one last glance at her face, memorizing the exact shade of worry in her eyes, and then I shift.

“Enough,” I say, low and final.

She stiffens, lips parting like she might argue—but she doesn’t. She knows what I feel in my bones. The pull behind us. The wrongness in the trees. The endless patience of the dead.