The deflection is obvious. He sees through it. I watch him see through it, watch him choose not to push.
“How bad is it?” He nods toward my arms, where fresh scratches layer over old wounds. “The exposure.”
“Manageable.” I begin preparing the treatment—crushing herbs, mixing them with water from a canteen I stashed here years ago. “I’ve had worse. Years of exposure teaches you how to function through it.”
“Function. Not recover.”
I look up at him. At this massive, scarred, infected executioner who’s fighting against his own body to protect me from what he might do.
“No one recovers from the Bloom. Not completely.” I finish the mixture and hold it out. “But this will slow the progression. Give you time. Maybe enough.”
He takes the cup. Our fingers brush in the transfer.
Heat shoots up my arm. Not pain—something else. Something that makes my pulse stutter and my thoughts scatter in directions they shouldn’t go.
His eyes meet mine. And I see it there—the same heat, the same confusion, the same desperate battle against wanting things neither of us can afford.
“What the Bloom is doing to you—” I don’t look away. “It’s not manufacturing something from nothing. That’s what the Abbot wants you to believe. It magnifies what’s already there. Takes something real and strips away your ability to moderate it.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Which means thefeeling is yours. And that means you have a choice about what you do with it.”
He’s very still. The cup held in both hands, steam rising between us.
“That’s supposed to help.”
“It’s supposed to be true.”
“Drink,” I say. “Then rest. We plan our next move when you wake.”
He drains the cup without breaking eye contact. Sets it down. Returns to his position against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting, his massive frame dwarfing the small space.
“She was wrong.” His voice is quieter now, the treatment taking effect. “Your torturer. About me betraying you.”
“You heard that?”
“Enhanced senses. The infection’s side effect.” His eyes drift closed. “I could smell your fear from here. Hear your heartbeat when you ran.”
I should be disturbed by that. Should feel violated, exposed, my privacy stripped away by his Bloom-enhanced abilities.
Instead, my chest tightens with something unexpected. He heard me in danger. He was ready to come for me. Would have, probably, if the infection hadn’t anchored him here.
“Get some rest.” I settle against the opposite wall, putting the maximum distance the small chamber allows between us. “We’ll need our strength for what comes next.”
“What does come next?”
I think of Maret. Of the Abbot’s plan to claim us both. Of the Bloom spreading through Zrynok’s blood even as the treatment fights to slow it.
“We finish what we came here to do. Every Keeper who lifts a blade against the innocent. Every stone that sheltered this place from consequence. Every root of what the Abbot built.”
“And the Abbot himself?”
I let myself smile. It feels sharp on my face. Dangerous.
“Him most of all.”
EIGHT
ZRYNOK
The walls are too close.
