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My body won’t move. I’m nothing more than a block of wood as Tristan fights against the bindings on his wrists, his anger and frustration building to toxic levels.

I can’t heal this. There’s no healing this.

Liam is unrecognizable as he strides back to me. He wipes the blood from his knife on his pants like it’s nothing more than the dew from wet grass. This can’t be real. There isn’t a shadow of regret on him. Where is the man who couldn’t stab Farron Banks?

His gaze burns into the side of my face. “It’s okay if you don’t want to watch.”

A scream starts from deep in my belly, building like a rumble of thunder and growing until I’m so full of noise I could split in half. I’ve never felt more powerless. Hopeless.

Liam’s hand brushes my back, and I jerk away as if I’ve been branded. It snaps me out of my prison of shock, and my feet finally unstick from the floor.

Shoving past Liam, I run to my husband and splay my hands over the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. But it’s useless. I’m useless. With a sob, I adjust my hold on him, but his hot blood flows between my fingers and won’t stop won’t stop won’t stop—

Creator help me.

Clamps. My head lifts. We need clamps!

Spinning to Dr. Henshaw, I pat his chest, searching for the clamps he told me he always carries. I find nothing. Why forget them today of all days?

“What are you doing?”

Liam asks.

“Where’s your medicine bag?”

I demand of Dr. Henshaw, even though he can’t answer me. He must have clamps in there. Only I don’t get a chance to search for it because Percy roughly picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. “No,”

I shout, kicking and pushing as he carries me out of the room.

Then it hits me that even if I had every medical instrument needed to save Tristan’s life, they wouldn’t let me use them. They want him to die.

It leaves me only one choice.

“Liam, make him stop,”

I shout, begging him to listen.

Liam frowns. “Percy, wait.”

Begrudgingly, Percy sets me down, but his arm remains on my waist.

“In about five seconds you’re going to need to save my life,”

I say, “and you won’t be able to do it without untying this man.”

I point at Henshaw. “He’s a doctor.”

Tristan jumps in his chair, adding a physical objection to the ones he’s bombarding me with in my head. He’s still alive and conscious—is it possible Liam only cut the external jugular?

“Isadora,”

Percy says, tugging me, “you can’t save him. Just . . . go for a walk. Let us handle it.”

He speaks with the patronizing tone of nearly every clansman I know. Translation: Leave this for the men to deal with.

No. Not this time.

I close my eyes and fight the distractions pulling me in every direction. Worst of all is Tristan’s barrage of memories—his demands.

Don’t do it, Isadora. It’ll kill you.

Listen to me, I love you.

But louder than his attempts to say goodbye is his injury. It calls for me like a siren screaming in alarm.

Taking on his wound is exactly as I hoped. The connection is no longer a barely-fed creek we have to manipulate to do our bidding; it’s a waterfall under my control. I welcome it.

Come.

Red hot pain explodes across my throat as my skin splits open. The vein in my neck goes next. Liquid warmth spills down the front of my blouse and Percy’s arm.

Tristan stills, and shock ripples through him. Then I’m hit with a wave of his fear. He throws up a mental wall, blocking me from taking more, and although he succeeds, he’s too late.

I refuse to look at him as he screams at me through his gag, begging me to give some back. But I block him now. We can’t share this. There’s only one person in this room Henshaw will be allowed to help.

“What? What is happening?”

Percy shouts.

My hands clutch my neck in an attempt to stanch the flow.

Liam’s panicked eyes rake down me in confusion. Then he rushes toward me as he removes his shirt.

Tristan’s chair rocks as he fights against his restraints.

Some blood enters my mouth from the overflow coming from my hands, and I gag, then spit. Panic threatens to overwhelm me as I gulp air. At least my airway is still intact.

With trembling hands, Liam presses his shirt against my neck. But it’s not going to be enough.

“What else? What do I need to do?”

His voice is strangled.

“Un . . . tie him.”

Liam’s lips thin. Then he spins on Percy. “Do it!”

It’s an order.

Dizziness hits, and when I attempt to sit, Liam catches me, lowering me to the floor. A flurry of noise fills the room. More shouts. A crash.

Liam’s chest rises and falls faster than my heartbeat, but I need him to hear me. “If you . . .”

My voice is a whisper.

“Shhh,”

Liam says gently. “Don’t speak.”

He tightens the pressure on the left side of my neck. “I think we’ve slowed it.”

Has he? Maybe only the external jugular was cut. It’s the difference between seconds and minutes to live.

“Just hang on,”

Liam chokes out. Veins bulge over his sweaty forehead.

That’s the plan, but my vision darkens around the edges. I need to say this before I pass out. “Their magic—if . . . you hurt him . . . it will hurt me.”

I say it as a threat to keep Liam in line. It’s the only power I hold to protect Tristan.

Liam bares his teeth, his anger returning, making him look wild. “I promise you I will find a way to break this hold on you.”

My eyes widen. Does he not understand what I want?

Or does he simply no longer care?

What happened to you?

Henshaw appears above me. Liam’s at my side, still pressing the shirt into my neck. His eyes are red and wet. Tristan’s words flow through my head, like a prayer, soft and pleading.

“Move your hand,”

Henshaw says to Liam, then peers at my bloody neck.

Henshaw levels me with a look of pity, then holds up a metal clamp. “Try not to move. This is going to hurt. A lot.”

Do it.

The metal digs into my neck, and I can’t hold back my scream.