Page 75 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
If he were anywhere other than one of the men who has my whole heart, I’d let him go. If I were anyone else, I’d grieve and move on.
But I’m not.
I don’t know why I have magic or what my father created me for, but Idohave it. And if it can turn men to stone, it can stitch this one back together again, too. I don’t care if it wants blood and death. I demand life.
The world narrows to the hole in his side, to his blood, to the wild magic pulsing in my veins. I press both hands to his wound, pushing down with everything I have. The skin beneath my palms grows hot, hotter than anything human. Light bleeds from my fingers—blue, then white, then a violent, searing gold.
Bran flinches away, shielding his eyes. Onyx just stares, his mouth a slack line of awe and fear.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway. I pour every ounce of want, of need, of fury, love, and terror into the hole in Sable’s side.
“You don’t get to leave us,” I snarl. “You’re not allowed. I won’t let you.”
My voice sounds strange, echoing in the clearing like a song or a curse.
There’s a ripping sound, flesh knitting under my hands, the wound pulling shut in a mess of new skin and old blood. I press harder, feeling something move beneath the surface—a spark, a thrum, a new pulse that answers the wild tempo of my own heart.
Sable jerks. His back arches, his mouth opening in a scream.
I clamp down, screaming right back at him, matching my voice to his, daring him to let go again, to give up and leave me.
He doesn’t.
With a shudder, he collapses against me, breath rattling but steady. The color returns in slow, trembling waves, a blush at his lips, a flare in his cheeks, the familiar wicked curl of his mouth.
He coughs, sputters, then looks up at me through a veil of blood and tears.
“You’re–” He chokes, spits blood. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
I laugh, then sob, then laugh again, and the world rushes in at once. My hands are shaking, the skin around my nails lit with blue fire that won’t go out, not even when I ball them into fists.
Onyx stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost.
Bran says nothing, just pulls Sable’s body up into his arms, hugging him so tight the bones crack.
I’m so tired I could sleep for a year.
But I can’t.
There’s movement in the brush. The kind of movement that means swords and arrows, not animal feet or wind.
Shade barrels into the clearing, covered head to toe in blood, none of it his. His eyes are feral, his mouth curled in a snarl. Behind him, Talon and Grim appear, dragging two wounded men between them, the king’s livery shredded and bloodied.
“We need to move. Now,” Shade barks. He doesn’t look at Sable. He doesn’t look at me. He’s all animal, all forward motion.
Talon drops the guards, then grabs Bran’s unbroken arm, hauling him to his feet. Grim wipes his blade on a patch of moss, his green eyes unreadable in the gloom.
Onyx lifts Sable, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Sable grunts but doesn’t protest. He’s alive. That’s all that matters.
Shade looks at me, and for the first time in my life, I see fear in his eyes.
“What did you do?” he asks, his voice barely more than a growl.
“What needed to be done,” I say, my own voice shaking.
Shade doesn’t argue. He just jerks his chin at the trail, and we run.
The forest is a blur of black and green and silver. We duck and weave through the trees, our feet pounding the earth, our hearts drumming in a savage counterpoint.
