The healer follows briefly, checks my pulse again, presses something bitter under my tongue that does nothing for the bond but keeps my body from shutting down, and then she leaves with one final warning.
“Do not let him leave your sight.” She says. “If this is targeted, they will try again.”
The pain comes in waves for hours, and I drift in and out of something that is not sleep and not consciousness, and every time Ezra moves closer the bond reacts violently but he does not retreat.
He sits beside the bed. He presses a cool cloth to my forehead. He adjusts the blankets when I start shivering even though the room is warm.
He does not speak much, but I can feel the storm inside him building.
Paranoia and calculation. Names lining up in his mind like suspects in a war. At some point th
