Page 156 of Alchemised
The bones in his hand unfurled, and the veins and muscle tissue wove around them, and by the time it was done, she would never have known he’d lost the arm.
She eased the pressure of her hands off his shoulder as she reopened the arteries and veins, letting the blood rush through all the new tissue. The muscles in Ferron’s arm rapidly evolved into established tissue.
She’d never considered regenerating more than new tissue, but as she felt Ferron’s body reverting itself to its former state, she wondered if she could. There was no reason she had to stop there at basic regeneration.
The power radiating from inside Ferron’s chest faded until it was barely discernible. A vague knot of energy and lumithium. It felt tiny for something with so much power.
She didn’t dare push deeper, but she didn’t pull her hands away.
Of all the contexts in which she’d imagined Ferron half naked in her presence, healing or medical care had not crossed her mind, although it was infinitely preferable to kissing him.
She was comfortable with this kind of physical contact.
She studied him as his heartbeat finally dropped to a steady rhythm, colour slowly leaching back into his body as the blood loss faded away.
He was—even in the most generous terms—gangly. There was hardly a trace of body fat on him. She could see his ribs, the jut of his sternum, bony shoulders. He had long limbs and knobby elbows. Stripped down, he looked so young.
It was no wonder Ferron wore a good three layers of uniform in an effort not to look so overtly juvenile.
Her fingers traced absently across his now unmarred skin.
She couldn’t imagine being trapped in the body of a sixteen-year-old for eternity.
“Do you leer at and fondle all your unconscious patients, or am I special?” Ferron’s voice was as unexpected as a bucket of ice water.
Helena started, her heart slamming into her throat as she snatched her hands away, her face scorching hot.
“I was not,” she said, her voice tight and rising, even though she had no excuse for touching him that way. “I was just wondering about your body fat ratio.”
“Of course you were,” he said, sitting up with a suggestive smirk.
She could probably heat the entire tenement with the amount she was blushing.
“I wasn’t leering at you,” she said forcefully. “You look scarcely grown. I don’t fancy boys.”
The smirk vanished. He stared at her for a painfully long moment and stood up. “As I recall,” he finally said, his voice clipped, “I never asked you to look at all.”
He went over and picked up his cloak, which was the only part of his clothing that wasn’t nearly burned to ashes, and pulled it on. It smeared him all over with blood.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Your meaning was incredibly clear,” he said in a cool voice, his jaw set.
“Ferron,” she said, the idea abruptly occurring to her, and she wondered why she’d never thought to ask before. “Was it a punishment for you—being made Undying?”
He glanced at her, his face empty. “How could immortality be a punishment? It’s what everyone wants.”
HELENA FELT HAUNTED BY FERRON when she returned to Headquarters—not only by his answer, but by everything about the interaction.
For months, he’d been something bloodless and soulless. Not a person, but an evil to endure and an obstacle to overcome. Seeing him injured, stripped of the shell of a uniform that he hid inside, had altered her perception of him.
There was a fragility that she had been unprepared for.
He’d seemed so human, and she didn’t like thinking of him as human.
Undying. Murderer. Spy. Target. Tool.
That was how she needed to view Ferron.
