Page 172 of Echoes of the Banshee

“You don’t have to do all this,” Benson mutters.

“Shut up,” Dylan says, his tone lighter than the moment deserves, though his eyes stay locked on Benson with sharp, quiet worry. “Let us carry your sorry ass for once.”

I stay by Thea’s side as the group heads toward the health office. Her steps are uneven, breath shallow. She stumbles on the curb.

“Hey,” I say softly, catching her elbow before she hits the pavement. She winces again. “Let me heal you.”

“I’m fine,” she mutters, glaring up at me. “I can wait until B is healed.” When she stumbles again, I ignore her objections and lift her into my arms.

“Did I take too much?” I ask, alarm spiking in my chest.

“No,” she exhales, the word barely a breath. In that moment I know: she was holding on just long enough to make sure Benson would live.

We reach the health office and Ollin shoulders the door open. The scent of magic hits us immediately, cool and metallic. The healer is already moving.

“Over here!” she calls, clearing the nearest cot.

“Witch cuffs,” Mavrik says as they move. “Over two days. They drained his magic to the edge of collapse.”

The healer gestures frantically to the cot. Ollin and Dylan lower Benson down as gently as they can. He still flinches, hissing through his teeth.

“And her?” the healer asks, gesturing to Thea in my arms.

“Just a few bruises, worry about him first,” she tells the nurse.

“Put her on the other cot,” the healer says briskly, already focusing on Benson.

I lower Thea gently onto the mattress, brushing hair from her eyes.

“Rest,” I order her, and she closes her eyes without protest. I sit beside her, wrapping my hand around hers as the healer’s magic flares gold over Benson’s body.

I exhale as color returns to his face and his breathing begins to steady. But the image of him coughing up blood in the car is carved into my memory.

I glance down at Thea.

My mate.

The thought pulses through me: terrifying, electric, and undeniable. But not now.

There are battles to fight before that one.

Zair

Sisterly Love and Other Forms of Psychological Warfare

It was not just a few bruises.

Both bones in her left forearm were completely broken. Snapped. Her shoulder yanked from the socket. The bruises on her face bled together. I couldn’t even tell how many times she’d been hit.

And her abdomen was somehow, impossibly worse. One broken rib. Three cracked. Internal bleeding from the force and sheer number of blows.

How in gods’ name did she haul Benson like that?

She gave me her magic to heal him. Her strength.

All while she had one foot in the grave.

The nurse tears into me for a solid ten minutes for not healing her. Benson jumps in, says he was with her the whole time and didn’t even realize how bad it was. But none of it touches the guilt gnawing at me. Some mate I am. I didn’t even check her.