“I’m being careful with you,” he corrects.
I look away first. The healer returns shortly after, muttering about stubborn patients and reckless magic-users. She checks the wound, murmurs approval at the fading poison lines, and reminds me, twice, not to channel anything more complicated than a candle flame for at least a day.
Zeidan watches the entire exchange like he’s memorizing every breath I take. He doesn’t touch me. Not since the healer arrived. But he’s close, so the bond keeps smoothing the edges of my pain, close enough that my magic stops skittering quite so wildly. I can feel the effort it takes him to hold himself still, like something in him wants to pace, to prowl, to check every shadow for knives.
When the healer presses a hand to my ribs, Zeidan’s posture shifts by a fraction. Protective. Possessive. So fast no one else would notice.
I also notice the faint smear of dried blood at his knuckles, someone else’s, from the attacker, and the way his gaze keeps returning to my side like his mind is replaying the moment the blade found me.
He’s cold and controlled as always, but the bond keeps betraying him.
And it’s hard not to wonder, just for a second, if he would be standing here like this if we weren’t bound. If he would still watch me like I’m something he can’t afford to lose.
When the healer leaves, the silence rushes back in.
“I want to see the blade,” I say.
“No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You’re recovering,” he replies flatly. “You’re not dissecting assassination tools today.”
“I need to know what was used on me.”
“So do I. Which is why I’ll handle it.”
“That’s not how this works,” I snap, pushing myself upright despite the protest from my side. “This happened on my land. To me.”
His eyes darken. “And that is precisely why you are not doing this alone.”
The bond tightens, friction sparking between us.
“I don’t need you hovering,” I say.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re breathing like you’re waiting for someone to stab me again.”
“It’s my job to anticipate threats.”
Something about that makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with poison.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Then at least let me observe.”
He is watching me, weighing control against inevitability.
“Later,” he says. “When you can stand without shaking.”
I hate that he’s right.
By evening,the pain has dulled to a manageable throb, and the restlessness beneath my skin has grown worse.
My magic feels… wrong. Like it’s slipping sideways when I try to grasp it, refusing to settle into familiar channels. Every breath I take hums with too much potential.
Zeidan notices. Of course he does.
“You’re spiking again,” he says from the doorway.
