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The orderly shoved Merrik forward, announcing to the room, “The Laesornysh’s boyfriend.”

A collective sigh seemed to sweep through the nurses and healers before several of them converged on Merrik, hauling him bodily to the table and plunking him beside Adry’s head.

He couldn’t quite understand what was happening. He’d expected some pushback to his presence. After all, he was just the boyfriend. He wasn’t family. Instead of having to argue his way to Adry’s side, everyone from the orderlies to the healers were treating him as if they couldn’t tend Adry without him there.

“Keep her calm.” One of the male healers intoned the order with all the solemness of the sternest of elves.

“What? Why? Is she not going to be asleep?” Merrik gaped at the healer. What was going on? It was standard practice for healers to send a patient to sleep for surgeries like this. Just as they had for him.

“She is Laesornysh. She must stay awake.” The healer didn’t even glance in Merrik’s direction as he rejoined the other healers. “If she does not stay calm, you could be burned.”

Adry lifted her hand, reaching for Merrik, as her eyes cracked open. When she spoke, her voice slurred. “Dacha told me. Before he left. Our magic will lash out if we do not control it.”

He gripped her hand, clasping her fingers, even as something inside him shook. She had to be awake for all of this? Simply because she was a Laesornysh.

That applied to every Laesornysh. Even Fieran.

All those times Fieran had been so casual about his crash and the recovery afterward, he’d never mentioned that he’d been awake for all of it. While Merrik had slept through losing his leg, Fieran had been awake while his bones had been rearranged and put back together. He’d been awake for removing that piece of shrapnel that had impaled him. He remembered every moment.

And Merrik had never thought to probe more. All that time he’d been angry at Fieran, he’d told himself that his experience had been worse. Yes, he had the permanent consequence of losing his leg, and his recovery had been far longer.

But in the immediate aftermath? Fieran had experienced something so intense that he’d never even told Merrik about it. A different kind of awful than what Merrik had suffered, but still suffering.

Adry was about to experience something similar, and Merrik would be here to witness every moment.

He wasn’t strong enough for this.

Something of his shock must have played across his face because a hint of a smile crossed Adry’s face. “Not so bad. Gave me mor—morph—drugs. And lots of healing magic.”

He tightened his grip on her hand and swiped her hair from her face with the other. “I am here. I will be right here.”

Distantly, he registered the healers, surgeons, and nurses discussing the wounds. The fact that there were no exit wounds, and the bullets would have to be removed. The remnants of Adry’s magic still clinging to the bullets and present in her body.

“Do not worry. I will keep hold of my magic.” She squeezed his hand. “I will not burn you.”

“I was not worried.” Being burned by her magic if she lashed out was the last concern on his mind at the moment.

Her smile vanished as she made a noise of pain in the back of her throat. He couldn’t bring himself to glance at the healers to see what was causing her distress. Instead, he cradled the side of her face, tracing his thumb over her cheek as he murmured soothing nonsense.

Across from him, a nurse set a step stool on the table next to Adry’s shoulder, then a bowl filled with steaming water on top of that. She placed a jar filled with blood in the water before she turned to the nearest healer. “The idea to store the blood in a troll cold cupboard was an excellent one.”

“It kept the blood viable.” The healer nodded. “General Laesornysh was wise to have the foresight to leave blood in storage before he left.”

Something that was so very Uncle Farrendel. He hated needles, and yet he had endured them just in case Adry was hurt. He would not have wanted to risk a situation like what had happened when Merrik crashed. His dacha was not a match for him, and it had taken long minutes to find someone who was. Merrik had nearly died on the operating table because of it.

Nor was Merrik a match for Adry. Even if they shared the same blood type, which they didn’t, they also didn’t have the same magic type. Both needed to match. Either that, or Adry could be given the blood from a magicless human where there would be no magical confliction.

Once the blood had warmed somewhat, the healer opened the valve to the rubber tube connected to a hypodermic needle. She waited until the blood had completely filled both—ensuring there were no air bubbles—before she inserted the needle into Adry’s arm at the inner elbow.

Merrik kept his grip on Adry’s hand, even as she squeezed tightly, her breaths growing ragged. He wanted to demand the healers do something—give her more morphine or more healing magic—but the concern in their voices as they talked kept him from interrupting. They would be doing the best they could with the way Adry’s magic fought theirs.

At last, one of the surgeons announced a triumphant “Got it!” followed by the clink of the bullet hitting the metal tray.

Merrik risked one glance, decided that apparently he was squeamish about blood when that blood was Adry’s, and focused squarely on Adry’s face. He traced his thumb over her cheek. “Almost done.”

He had no idea if it was true or not—he hadn’t been paying attention enough to know if that was the first bullet dug out or the third—but he said the lie anyway.

She nodded against his hand, her jaw clenched, her eyes squeezed shut.