"Get your hands off me, you arrogant prick," Mara spat, though she was the one currently hauling Cael Rook’s dead weight up a crumbling brick ledge.
Every time his boot slipped against the stone, a white-hot spike of phantom pain shot through Mara’s own ankle. She gasped, her grip tightening on his collar. It wasn’t just a sensation—it was a mirror. He was bleeding out from a hole in his chest she’d put there, and her own heart was thumping in a jagged, agonizing rhythm that didn’t belong to her.
"Careful," Cael rasped, his voice a wet rattle. He didn't look like a Night Lord now. He looked like a corpse in a ruined suit. "If you drop me, we both take a dive. And I’ve got a feeling you’re not fond of heights."
"Shut up. Just... shut the hell up," she hissed. She heaved him upward with a guttural scream, her muscles screaming in protest.
As soon as they hit the rooftop, Mara collapsed beside him, chest heaving. The rain began to fall—not a poetic drizzle, but a cold, biting sleet that turned the soot-covered roof into a skating rink. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the black veins creeping up his neck, pulsing in time with the strange, dark heat humming under her own skin.
Cael rolled onto his back, staring at the grey sky. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh that ended in a cough of blood. "That look. That's the look of a professional who just realized she’s tethered to her target. How does it feel, Voss? The Crown’s little lapdog, now wearing my leash?"
Mara didn't answer. She reached for the cauterizing kit in her belt, her fingers trembling. She didn't want to save him. She wanted to finish the job, but every time she imagined the blade sliding back into his ribs, her own lungs seized up, denying her air.
"Why isn't it killing me?" she demanded, pinning him down with her knee to stop his thrashing. "I hit you square in the heart. You should be dead. I should be free."
Cael’s hand shot up, gripping her wrist. His skin was ice, but where he touched her, a spark of something electric and violent flared. He pulled her closer, forcing her to lean down until their faces were inches apart. She could smell iron and expensive tobacco. His eyes, usually a cold void, were swirling with a dark, predatory hunger.
"Because we didn't just trade blood, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her lips. "We traded souls. You didn't kill me. You invited me in."
"I didn't invite anything," Mara snapped, trying to yank her arm away. He didn't let go. His grip was like a vice, a reminder that even half-dead, he held a power she couldn't touch.
"You did the second you felt that rip in your chest. You felt the bond snap shut, didn't you?" He smirked, a cruel, thin line. "Now, every bruise I get, you feel. Every cut I take, you bleed. And right now? I'm feeling a very strong urge to see if you can handle the pain of a broken rib."
He shifted his weight, intentionally pressing his injured chest into the hard concrete. Mara shrieked, her body arching as a sympathetic pressure crushed her own ribcage. She slammed her palm against his shoulder, pinning him back down.
"Stop it! You sadistic bastard!"
"Make me," he challenged, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a dangerous kind of amusement. "You’re the one with the knife, Mara. But you can't use it. Not unless you want to see what it's like to have your own heart sliced open from the inside."