Page 52 of The Moon's Fury
Her palms were glowing.
Ever so slowly, she pressed her hands over his bloodied wounds. His skin didn’t sizzle and burn away—a minor relief.
But she had no idea what to do. She closed her eyes again and focused on his smile, his kiss, his embrace. She willed him to be whole and healed. Layna let her heart overflow with her love for him, until fresh tears dripped down her cheeks and fell to the ground.
Pulling back her palms slightly, she gasped—the gaping wounds were no longer edged in green.
It’s working.
She channeled more force into her hands, keeping her mind fixed on her love. Before her eyes, the open wounds began to knit together, his skin slowly mending itself. In awe, she watched the jagged lacerations from the barbed tips heal.
Najoom snorted loudly, and her concentration broke. The glow died from her hands. She spun her head wildly, afraid someone had found them. But they were alone.
When she turned back, the wounds were slowly reopening. Layna called to the rebellious light again, and it answered without hesitation this time.
She pressed her palms over his wounds and healed him.
Shehealedhim.
When the cuts had closed and a healthy pallor returned to his face, she sat back on her heels.
“Zarian?” she whispered tentatively. Sniffling, she rubbed her nose. Her hand came away slick with fresh blood. Wiping it on her pants, she cupped his face. “Zarian?”
His eyes remained closed, but his chest rose and fell steadily, and his breaths were no longer labored. She splayed her hand over his chest and felt the powerful beat of his strong heart.
Her wide eyes met Najoom’s.
“I did it,” she whispered.
He snorted and lay his head beside Zarian’s legs, seemingly exhausted by the ordeal. A strong wave of fatigue tugged at her limbs, forcing her eyes to droop.
But she couldn’t sleep. Not now. Not when they were so unprotected, so exposed. She’d made enough noise that anyone could be on their way to investigate.
She unstrapped her bow from Najoom’s side and settled beside Zarian, quiver at her hip. Eyes sweeping the darkness in every direction, she vowed to stay awake through the night, in case the bandits found them.
Time blurred, measured only by when her soul needed reassurance that Zarian still lived, which she estimated to be roughly every quarter hour. She’d feel his heartbeat, soothed by its strong, steady rhythm.
Eventually, her eyelids grew too heavy. She set down her bow, rested her head in Zarian’s lap, and fell asleep.
24
Therewasaheavyarm draped over her side, and somehow, she knew she was safe beneath its weight. Gentle fingers stroked over her head in a featherlight caress.
She was safe.
The coppery tang of blood invaded her nostrils. Her eyes snapped open. Her cheek rested against Zarian’s thigh, his trousers stiff with dried blood. Panic clawed through her until her gaze reached his face—and found bright, aware hazel eyes staring back at her.
He smiled, and she nearly cried.
Bolting upright, Layna examined his ribs with trembling fingers. His skin was coated with dried blood, but it was intact. Whole. She hadn’t dreamt it up.
She had healed him.
She checked his shoulder, running her hands over the smooth skin. Again, she traced his ribs before sliding her hands over his neck and fisting them in his hair, needing to ground herself in proof that helived.
For his part, Zarian endured her scrutiny in silence, easily shifting this way and that. When she sat back, her eyes glistened with fresh tears.
“You did it,” he murmured. He cupped her cheek, flaking off remnants of dried blood from her nostrils. His eyebrows knit together. “How do you feel?”
