Waking up felt like surfacing from deep water.
The sounds of the hospital room filtered in first—the rhythmic whoosh-click of the ventilator, the hum of the fridge, the distant wail of sirens that sounded more like a lullaby than a warning.
I opened my eyes.
The room was dim. Oryn sat by the door, his head tipped back against the wall, asleep with his gun in his lap.
And in the bed next to me—pushed so close the rails touched—was Cyprian.
He was watching me.
His skin was no longer the color of ash. It was pale, yes, but the grey undertone of heavy metal poisoning was gone, replaced by the faint, healthy flush of oxygenated blood. My blood.
"You're staring," I whispered, my throat dry as dust.
"I'm counting," he rasped. His voice was stronger, the rattle in his chest gone.
"Countin
