“I don’t understand,” Viola says at last, breaking the silence. “None of this makes sense.”
My focus stays on Oliver’s hand in mine. The familiar strength is gone and replaced by something terrifyingly fragile. My fingers curl tighter as his chest skips instead of rising fully, each breath looking more painful than the last while sweat beads along his hairline, dampening his lashes.
“I was sprayed with the blood,” Viola continues, voice strained. “You were covered in it.”
Her words yank me backward in time to pulling Sylas free from beneath Monica’s lifeless body, to the chaos in the courtyard, to the sickening screams tearing through the air beneath flashing lightning. And then, inevitably, to the wolf who attacked Oliver and put him here.
“I remember,” I mutter.
“And yet,” she pres
