Page 56 of The Onyx Covenant

“Don’t you dare,” I gasp between strokes. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Above us, shapes line the cliff edge—the shadow wolves watching, waiting to see if we’ll survive the fall only to drown in the river. They most likely won’t follow us down, not with the cliff so steep, but they’ll wait. They’re patient hunters.

I reach Theron and grab his shoulder, flipping him onto his back. His face is deathly pale in the moonlight, blood smeared across his forehead. His chest doesn’t move. He’s not breathing.

“No, no, no.” I loop my arm across his chest, kicking furiously to keep us both afloat. “Wake up, damn you!”

His head lolls against my shoulder, unresponsive. I spot a rocky bank about fifteen yards downstream and adjust my course, pushing against the current with everything I have. My muscles scream in protest, but I refuse to let go.

“You don’t get to die on me,” I hiss into his ear. “Not like this.”

The shore seems impossibly far away, but I shove forward inch by excruciating inch. The river doesn’t want to give him up, pulling at him like it has a personal vendetta. Maybe it does. The waters of Wolfhaven have always had their own will, their own hunger.

When my feet finally touch stone, relief surges through me so strongly that I almost collapse. But I can’t. Not yet. I drag Theron’s limp body onto the rocky shore, his dead weight nearly impossible to move.

“By the moons, you’re heavy,” I grunt, hooking my arms under his and heaving with the last of my strength. Then I drag his backpack off him so he’s lying flat on the river’s grassy bank. “All that brooding must weigh a ton.”

Once he’s fully out of the water, I collapse beside him, my lungs burning, my arms trembling with fatigue. But there’s no time to rest. He’s still not breathing.

I press my ear to his chest, searching for a heartbeat. There’s nothing there.

“Don’t you fucking leave me,” I whisper, positioning my hands over his chest. “You hear me, Theron? You’re not going to die.”

I push down hard, again and again, the way I was taught in priestess training. Healing is supposed to be our domain, though most of our methods involve herbs and prayers, not this desperate physical struggle against death itself.

“Breathe,” I command, pumping his chest rhythmically. Water trickles from the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t respond. “Breathe, damn you!”

In the distance, I can hear the others calling to each other, their voices growing fainter as the river carries them away. I should be worried about them, but all I can focus on is the man beneath my hands.

After everything—after he broke my heart, after seeing him with that Umbra bitch he was supposed to mate with, after a year of forcing myself not to think of him—here I am, fighting to keep him alive with a desperation that terrifies me.

“You don’t get to choose me for this ritual and then leave me alone in it.” My voice breaks as tears mix with the river water on my face. “You don’t get to look at me like you did back there, like I’m yours, and then just… just…”

The tears come harder now, blurring my vision as I continue compressions. I’m so focused I almost miss the slight tremble of his chest, the first tentative rise and fall of breath.

But nothing happens after that. His chest remains still, his face pale and lifeless.

“Gods,” I sob, a new wave of panic washing over me. “Please, no.”

Then I remember—the moondust. My mother pressed the small sachet into my hand before I left for the ritual, her eyes grave as she warned me to use it only in the direst need.

It can bring someone back from the threshold of death, she’d once said.But it must be mixed with the blood of one who cares for them truly.

I scramble for my backpack, yanking it open with shaking hands. Water streams from everything inside, but I find the small leather pouch tucked into the pocket of my pants where I’d put it when we changed clothes before dinner. Something I planned to carry with me, along with the blade. When I open it, my heart sinks. The white powder is soaked through, clumping at the bottom of the bag.

“Fuck, no,” I whisper, digging my fingers in to scrape out what I can. There’s powder there, wet and paste-like but present. It will have to do.

I find my small blade. With a quick motion, I slice my thumb, barely feeling the sting as blood wells up.

“Blood calls to blood,” I murmur, the priestess’s words coming automatically as I squeeze my thumb over the moondust, watching as crimson drops mix with white. “Life calls to life.”

I add a splash of river water from my soaked shirt, stirring the mixture with my bleeding thumb until it forms a thin paste. The moondust begins to glow faintly—a good sign. Even wet, its power remains.

Kneeling beside Theron again, I cradle his head with one hand, lifting the small pouch to his lips with the other.

“Drink this,” I plead, tipping the mixture into his mouth. “Please, Theron. I don’t know if it will work, but you have to try.”

When the paste disappears between his lips, I work my fingers on his throat, encouraging him to swallow. Then I resume compressions, putting all my remaining strength into each push.

---