Page 110 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

She’s not moving.

No. No, no, no⁠—

The fear hits me hard, cold enough to lock my lungs.

I shove the feeling down with everything I have. There’s no room for panic, not now. Rye is in shock, and if I break too, she’s dead. I force my legs to work and cross the snow toward them.

“Gemma, please. Gemma, I need you—” Rye’s voice is ragged.

“Rye—”

His breathing is too fast, too shallow; he’s spiraling.

I drop to my knees beside them. My fingers find her neck.

Please. Please be there. Please⁠—

A pulse threads under my fingertips, faint but there. The relief hits so hard my vision blurs, and I have to close my eyes and swallow everything down before it swallows me. She’s alive, stay sharp.

“She’s alive,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “Rye. She’s alive.”

I grab his face, holding him by the back of the neck, pulling his gaze to me. “You hear me. She’s alive.”

His eyes find mine, red-rimmed and terrified.

“But I need you with me. Can you breathe?”

I pull his head to mine, slowing my breathing. He tries, it shudders, catches, another breath, then another. The worst of it eases.

“Good.” I release him. “Good.”

Rye looks down at Gemma. I watch him fight for control, his jaw working, hands fisting and releasing. He shoves the panic down by force. When he speaks, his voice is rough but steady.

“We need to stop the bleeding.”

My whole body exhales. The Rye I need is back, I can hear it in his voice.

“Ribs too,” I add, stripping off my jacket, the cold cuts in sharp. “From the way she was breathing earlier.”

Rye nods. He’s already pulling off his own jacket, laying it across the snow to keep her off the frozen ground.

He shifts Gemma carefully. His movements are gentle and deliberate. Like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.

He tears a strip from his shirt before I can. We work together with no words needed. He lifts her just enough while I slide the fabric beneath her. I fold a thick pad over her side and press it against the wound.

Gemma cries out. The sound that tears from her throat is broken and agonizing.

“Rye—” Her voice is raw.

He’s already there, cupping her face, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He looks at me over her head. “Do it. I’ve got her.”

I bind the wound tight. Rye holds her through it, murmuring to her, grounding her. His hands don’t shake, but his jaw does.

When it’s done, she goes slack, unconscious again.