Page 70 of Rabid
I focus as much of my energy as I can on getting better in hopes that it helps to save Vorria. I don’t want her being drained to death—not even for me. Vorria gasps, and I open my eyes to try and see what happened. Her hazel gaze is fixed on me, and there’s a gleam there now that wasn’t there before.
“What?” Tyran demands.
“She has a spark,” she declares, a palpable relief washing through her.
“What does that mean?” Tyran demands, and I’m grateful he does because I want to know the same damn thing.
“Luna, you said your mother was a healer?”
“Yes,” I croak out. “But...I didn’t...get...the gift,” I add, struggling to form words even though it feels like thick cotton is being stuffed in my head, making it hard to think.
“You may not have gotten a strong enough spark of magic to become a healer, but you have a spark, honey, and you can use it to help me.”
I try to nod, but I think I mostly look like I’m losing muscle control of my head and neck.
“Just focus, Luna. Focus just like you were. Shove everything you can at what’s happening inside of you, and maybe we can do this together,” she instructs, not wasting another second as she begins the cool rush of magic again, a soothing balm against my worried soul.
“Push,” the healer demands, and I close my eyes, once again focusing all my energy just like my mother always taught me.
She never mentioned a spark, but she always made me do this when she used her magic on me. It happened less than a handful of times, a broken arm here, or when I fell out of a tree and cracked my head open, and then there was that time I accidentally sliced my hand with a knife while trying to peel a potato. Each healing moment stands out in my mind like a beacon guiding my way.
“Come on, Seneca.Fight.Give it everything you have. That’s a fucking order from your alpha,” Tyran yells at me, that raw, dominating power lacing his voice and demanding more than I ever thought I had to give.
The order stirs my wolf, his power reaching her even past the drug that’s keeping us apart. Heat eddies inside of me, my stomach suddenly feeling like a whirlpool of hot and cold. My wolf and I fight, fight harder than we ever have, to stay here, to heal, to keep Vorria from draining herself dry.
I give my all, the effort so exhausting that I can’t even open my eyes. My mind spins, my stomach rolls, and I shake all over and fight to stay conscious. Numbness spreads, and I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing, but I’m unable to ask. The vortex in my body slows, and tides of magic suddenly begin to recede.
“Was it enough?” Tyran asks, his voice desperate. “Was it enough?” he bellows when only silence answers his pleading question.
I want to reach up and stroke his face, to tell him how thankful I am that he was the wolf to claim me. But I can’t feel my hand, can’t even blink open my eyes. All I can do is float in some weird space between sleep and consciousness.
“Alpha,” Vorria whispers feebly, her voice barely audible.
“Please, is she going to be okay? Was the spark enough?” Tyran pleads, and his pain, his vulnerability, it breaks my heart and sends my wolf into a howled lament.
Before Vorria can answer him, unconsciousness rears up and pulls me down into the darkness against my will, and then there’s nothing.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Mate.”
Something presses against my face, and I bat it away.
“Vicious.”
Another annoying touch at my stomach makes me groan out a protest, because dammit, all I want to do issleep.
“Seneca.”
A sense of deja vu washes over me, even though I feel disoriented and groggy. Through a raspy throat, I grumble, “I really prefer your other ways of waking me up.” I drag my eyes open so I can blink up at the sexy, shirtless shifter looming over me.
Stark relief washes over Tyran’s expression, and he settles next to me and cups my cheeks in his hands. “Don’t you fuckingevertry to die on me again.”
His face is lined with weariness, dark circles beneath his brown eyes revealing his worry, the bond pulsing between us telling me the same thing.
Everything that happened rushes back in. The pain, the fear, the smell of blood leaking out of me dangerously fast, and Tyran as he begged and ordered me to fight, to live.
He releases me as I lift the sheet to look down at my stomach. There’s an angry red puckered scar there and some healing herbs mashed over it in a sticky paste. I’m shocked that it looks as good as it does. “How long have I been out?”
