Chapter 34 Second is first
Eva
"Get him out of here!" Chloe's voice, sharp and urgent, sliced through the night as she and Jed charged into the clearing, with a dozen wolves behind them. I pulled Malach toward safety. We stumbled out of the circle and into the trees. The world narrowed to Malach's dead weight, the burn of my own neck, and the sticky, unnatural feel of the blood soaking through my shirt from where I was pressed against him.
Desperation lit me up like wildfire as I dragged Malach through the darkened forest. Each step is a struggle. The dagger’s wound pulsed as I looked down at Malach's side. The obsidian shard was still buried there. The skin around it was a nightmare of black, swollen veins, crawling up his ribs like a plague. The blood wasn't just red; it was black, viscous, and smelling of rot. I almost gagged.
"Leave me," he rasped, his breath coming in ragged gasps against my ear. "Get to safety. The pack..." He tried to push me away.
"Not a chance in hell," I grunted, shifting his weight. "You're not dying on me now. I haven't even had the satisfaction of stabbing you myself this lifetime."
That drew a weak, bloody chuckle that turned into a wet cough. He was getting heavier with each second. I had no idea where I was dragging him; the fight behind me had faded, replaced by the sounds of the woods.
He slumped, his entire weight pulling me down. We crashed into a bed of ferns, the damp earth cool against my feverish skin. I rolled and knelt beside him, my hands hovering over the obsidian dagger.
"Pull it out," he gasped, his good hand gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "Now."
My stomach roiled. "Last I checked, you don't pull out obsidian artifacts cursed by moon cultists. You wait for the supernatural CDC."
A small, humorless smile touched his lips. "No CDC for this, Eva. Just you. Trust me."
Trust him. The words echoed in the hollow of my skull. I stared at the hilt of the dagger, at the black veins spreading like a disease from the wound. I had spent my entire life trusting no one, relying only on my own two hands and the lockpicks in my boot.
But here, under a canopy of trees, with the sounds of a battle I couldn't afford to lose raging somewhere behind me, I realized I had no other choice. His life was in my hands.
My fingers closed around the hilt. The metal was cold, colder than it should have been. I met his eyes. Then I pulled.
The blade came free with a sickening, sucking sound. A gush of black blood followed, and Malach cried out, that sound tore at something deep inside me. I threw the dagger aside as if it burned. It landed in the moss.
The hole it left was a mess of blackened tissue, an abyss in his side. My blood ran cold. He wasn't just bleeding. He was dying.
"I shouldn't have..." I started, panic clawing at my throat.
"Yes, you should have," he cut me off, his voice weak but firm. He grabbed my hand again, not to push me away, but to pull it toward the wound. "Now... the offering."
"Are you insane?" I tried to yank my hand back, but his grip was like iron, even now. "No way. I am not... I am not rubbing my blood all over your cursed stab wound."
A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated command. "Evangeline. Now."
And then, through the bond, I felt it not a command, but a plea, a raw, desperate wave of longing. My body answered before my mind could protest. A wave of heat washed over me, a heat that had nothing to do with the torc. My own blood called to him.
"Fine, fine! Jesus!" I muttered. With my free hand, I did the only thing I could think of. I pressed my palm against the sharp edge of the silver torc at my throat. The pain was immediate and sharp, which made me gasp.
I looked from my bloody palm to the wound in his side. Then I met his gaze.
"This is going to be incredibly weird," I warned.
I smeared my blood across the gash. The sharp, clean scent of ozone and rain replaced the stench of rot and decay. The black veins retreated, receding into the wound like eels returning to their den. The bleeding slowed. The raw, torn flesh began to knit itself together, right before my eyes.
His grip on my wrist loosened. His breathing evened out. The color returned to his face. I stared, my mind racing. This was impossible. This was magic. This was... us.
The howls grew closer and closer. Chloe and Jed crashed through the undergrowth. They stopped dead, taking in the scene: me, covered in Malach’s blood, my hand pressed to his rapidly healing side, him, looking up at me.
"Ronan's wolves are running with their tails between their legs. The cultist is gone." Jed growled.
"Gone?" I looked up.
"Vanished," Chloe said, her eyes wide as she stared at the wound. "Like she was never there. How did you..."
I didn't answer. I looked at Malach. He watched me with an intensity that made my mouth go dry. He smiled. A real smile. Not the predatory smirk, not the tired, bitter twist of his lips, but a genuine, bone-deep smile that reached his eyes and made them glow.
"I told you," he whispered, his voice still rough but stronger now. "Told you the torc was more than a collar." He reached up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw.
My stomach dropped. This was it. I had just, in a moment of pure, desperate instinct, given him my blood. Willingly. And I... didn't regret it.
I leaned down, my face inches from his. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. "Don't get used to it," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "This is the first and last time I give you anything without demanding something in return."