Page 48 of The Curse of Golden Blood
The soup sloshed as she gripped the bowl tighter, her knuckles white. "I can do it."
Her stubbornness was admirable, but I knew better than anyone how pride could only take you so far.
"Let me," I said again, softer this time.
Her eyes searched mine for a long moment. Then she set the bowl on the low table beside her and leaned back against the cushions. "Fine."
I dipped the spoon into the broth, watching the steam rise in lazy circles from the surface. Then I offered it to her.
She stared at me, and for a moment I thought she'd refuse. But then her lips parted and she took a slow sip, never breakingeye contact. The color rose in her cheeks, but whether it was from the heat of the broth or something else, I couldn't say.
"Better?" I asked.
She nodded.
I dipped the spoon again and lifted it to her lips, slowly this time, savoring the moment. Her mouth closed over the edge of the spoon, and I felt the heat of her breath against my fingers.
She swallowed, her throat moving in a graceful arch. She held my gaze the whole time.
My eyes slid to the bowl. "Is it helping?"
She glanced down, as if surprised to see the broth still there. "I think so."
I raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"
"Well, I'm not dead yet. That's something." She gave me a faint smile.
I wanted to smile back, but I didn't. "Are you in pain?"
She shook her head. "No more than usual."
I watched her face for any sign of a lie, but found nothing but honesty there. She was a mystery, this girl. Every time I thought I'd found the truth, she showed me another side.
"We must take a break from the bloodletting."
Her eyes widened. "Why?"
"You're too weak."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
She pushed herself upright. "It's too soon to stop. We haven't made enough of the compound for everyone yet."
The remedy bought time, nothing more. It slowed the fever, eased the convulsions, kept the sickness from devouring them whole in a matter of days. But it did not cure.
"There isn't enough for anyone if you die."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm not going to die."
I set the bowl aside and leaned forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "You're mortal, Miralyte."
She sat back, folding her arms over her chest. "The last time I checked, you faeries are just as mortal as we are. The disease could kill any of you just as easily."
I held her stare a moment longer, letting the words settle between us like dust after a storm. “Not as easily,” I said at last. “We are not immune, but the years harden us. A fae’s body can endure far more than yours before it breaks.”
Her chin lifted. "Then it's even more important for us to keep trying to find a cure."
