and he was hers. She couldnât create new life, but she could fight for the existing one with everything she had. Death would just have to do without.
His heart fluttered like an injured bird. He was in danger of cardiac arrest. She wrapped her magic around his heart, cradling it with one loop of the current while feverishly mending the tears in his flesh with the other. Each heartbeat resonated through her.
Pulse.
Stay with me.
Pulse.
Stay with me, stranger.
The lesions in the liver closed. The blood pressure stabilized. Finally. Charlotte knitted together the injured muscle and accelerated blood production.
I have you. You wonât die today.
The manâs breathing steadied. She encouraged circulation and held him, watching the internal temperature creep up. She was burning through what meager fat reserves he had to generate blood cells. There wasnât muchâhe was practically all muscle and skin.
The internal temperature approached normal levels. The heart pulsed, strong and steady.
She held on to him for a little while longer just to make sure he was past the danger point. He had a powerful, healthy body. He would recover.
Charlotte disengaged, slowly, a little at a time, and sat back. Her head swam. Blood stained her hands. Her nose itched, and she rubbed the back of her wrist against it, dazed and disconnected from reality.
The man lay next to her, his pulse even. She gulped the air. She was out of breath as if she had run some sort of crazy sprint. The familiar post-healing fatigue anchored her in place. Her muscles ached. The weariness would let go in a minute. During her time at the College, a difficult emergency healing like this was usually followed by a daylong bed rest for the healer, but she was no longer healing someone every day. She wasnât near her limit.
Sheâd beaten Death again. The relief flooded her. Thatâs one life that didnât have to end. One man who would survive to see his family. She had made it happen, and seeing his chest rise in an even rhythm made her deeply happy.
His hair was very dark, a glossy, almost bluish black. It fanned around his head, framing his face. He was no longer pale. He probably never was as pale as she perceived. Years of practice attuned her senses to react to specific signs of distress in her patients, and sometimes her magic distorted her vision to produce the diagnosis faster. The manâs skin had a pronounced bronze tint, both from a naturally darker tone and sun exposure. His face was precisely sculpted, with a square jaw, a strong chin, and a nose that mustâve been perfectly shaped at some point but now was too wide at the bridge, the result of an old injury, most likely. Short, dark stubble dusted his jawline. His mouth was neither too wide nor too narrow, his lips soft, his forehead high. His body was in superb shape, but the gathering of faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his age. He was at least as old as she, probably a few years older, mid to late thirties. His skin and clothes were stained with mud and blood, his hair was a mess, and yet there was something undeniably elegant about him.
What a handsome man.
The manâs eyelashes trembled. Charlotte leaned over, alarm pulsing through her. Her magic sparked. He shouldâve been out. His body needed every resource to heal.
The man opened his eyes. He looked at her, their faces mere inches apart. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and that intelligence changed his entire face, catapulting him from handsome to irresistible. âSophie,â he said.
He was delirious. âItâs over now,â she told him. âRest.â
His eyes focused on her. âBeautiful,â he whispered.
She blinked.
âI know that voice.â Ãléonore climbed into the truck. âRichard!
Mon dieu, que sâest-il passé?
â
Richard tried to rise. His pulse sped up to dangerous levels.
âNo!â Charlotte
His heart fluttered like an injured bird. He was in danger of cardiac arrest. She wrapped her magic around his heart, cradling it with one loop of the current while feverishly mending the tears in his flesh with the other. Each heartbeat resonated through her.
Pulse.
Stay with me.
Pulse.
Stay with me, stranger.
The lesions in the liver closed. The blood pressure stabilized. Finally. Charlotte knitted together the injured muscle and accelerated blood production.
I have you. You wonât die today.
The manâs breathing steadied. She encouraged circulation and held him, watching the internal temperature creep up. She was burning through what meager fat reserves he had to generate blood cells. There wasnât muchâhe was practically all muscle and skin.
The internal temperature approached normal levels. The heart pulsed, strong and steady.
She held on to him for a little while longer just to make sure he was past the danger point. He had a powerful, healthy body. He would recover.
Charlotte disengaged, slowly, a little at a time, and sat back. Her head swam. Blood stained her hands. Her nose itched, and she rubbed the back of her wrist against it, dazed and disconnected from reality.
The man lay next to her, his pulse even. She gulped the air. She was out of breath as if she had run some sort of crazy sprint. The familiar post-healing fatigue anchored her in place. Her muscles ached. The weariness would let go in a minute. During her time at the College, a difficult emergency healing like this was usually followed by a daylong bed rest for the healer, but she was no longer healing someone every day. She wasnât near her limit.
Sheâd beaten Death again. The relief flooded her. Thatâs one life that didnât have to end. One man who would survive to see his family. She had made it happen, and seeing his chest rise in an even rhythm made her deeply happy.
His hair was very dark, a glossy, almost bluish black. It fanned around his head, framing his face. He was no longer pale. He probably never was as pale as she perceived. Years of practice attuned her senses to react to specific signs of distress in her patients, and sometimes her magic distorted her vision to produce the diagnosis faster. The manâs skin had a pronounced bronze tint, both from a naturally darker tone and sun exposure. His face was precisely sculpted, with a square jaw, a strong chin, and a nose that mustâve been perfectly shaped at some point but now was too wide at the bridge, the result of an old injury, most likely. Short, dark stubble dusted his jawline. His mouth was neither too wide nor too narrow, his lips soft, his forehead high. His body was in superb shape, but the gathering of faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his age. He was at least as old as she, probably a few years older, mid to late thirties. His skin and clothes were stained with mud and blood, his hair was a mess, and yet there was something undeniably elegant about him.
What a handsome man.
The manâs eyelashes trembled. Charlotte leaned over, alarm pulsing through her. Her magic sparked. He shouldâve been out. His body needed every resource to heal.
The man opened his eyes. He looked at her, their faces mere inches apart. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and that intelligence changed his entire face, catapulting him from handsome to irresistible. âSophie,â he said.
He was delirious. âItâs over now,â she told him. âRest.â
His eyes focused on her. âBeautiful,â he whispered.
She blinked.
âI know that voice.â Ãléonore climbed into the truck. âRichard!
Mon dieu, que sâest-il passé?
â
Richard tried to rise. His pulse sped up to dangerous levels.
âNo!â Charlotte
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