“Yes.”
“And me?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Seph—”
“I can handle it,” I said quickly. “I promise.”
He stared at me, his gaze unreadable.
“Then we do it fast,” he said. “And we stop when I say stop.”
He dragged a knife from his belt and cut his palm without breaking eye contact.
Blood welled — bright, red.
“Touch me,” he said. “And don’t fight the rhythm.”
My breath caught — but I pressed my bare hand to his bleeding skin.
My power surged.
For one impossible heartbeat, it flowed through his limits instead of my fear.
Dev’s hand closed over mine, steadying.
“Now,” he said.
I lifted my free hand.
The soldiers nearest us slammed back as if struck by a physical wall, blood bursting from noses and ears as the force hit.
Dark streaks hit the ground around them.
It lasted only a few seconds.
Then Dev growled, sharp and final.
“Enough.”
The connection snapped.
Pain ripped through my skull. I cried out, knees buckling — Dev caught me as I retched violently onto the ground, his arms locked around me, his breath rough but controlled.
“I’ve got you,” he said firmly. “Stay with me.”
My power recoiled, raw and furious, like I’d torn something open inside myself.
Dev pressed his bloody palm to his thigh, sealing the cut with practiced ease, eyes never leaving me.
“No more,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you burn yourself out.”
I nodded weakly.
He raised his voice. “Clear the east side! Get her inside — now!”
As he moved us toward cover, helicopters still screaming overhead, something lodged deep and permanent in my chest:
