Lucian’s back was ramrod straight, muscles trembling with control. Fresh blood slid down the line of his ribs, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. The linen binding was already soaked.
“Sit back,” Amalia ordered.
“I’m sitting.”
He wasn’t. He was a statue refusing gravity.
Talia moved behind him, bracing his shoulders. “He’s about to fall,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” Lucian growled.
“You were meant to,” she shot back. “Lean.”
He did, only because the room tilted.
Amalia packed the wound harder.
Lucian hissed. Talia felt the pain rip through the bond—electric, white-hot. Her knees nearly buckled. He tried to shield her, to close the door between them. She shoved it open.
“I told you to leave our bond alone,” he rasped.
“Too bad,” she murmured, fingers tightening. “
