"I need to feed you," she moaned, feeling his pain as her own. "Please. . . open your mouth for me. Let me ease you. . . . "
As he complied, there was a cracking sound, as if the joints of his jaw weren't working properly.
Scoring her own vein, she carried her wrist to his bruised, parted lips. "Take from me. . . . "
At first, it was clear he had difficulty swallowing, so she licked one of the puncture marks shut to slow the flow. As he gained momentum, she bit herself once again.
She fed him for as long as he would let her, praying that her strength would become his own, and be transformed into a healing force.
How had this happened? Who had done this to him?
Given the number of gauze-wrapped limbs out in the hallway, it was obvious the lessers had sent a brutal force out into the streets of Caldwell upon the eve. And Qhuinn had certainly taken on the toughest, meanest member of the enemy forces. He was like that. Unflinching, always willing to put himself on the line. . . to the point where she worried about that vengeful streak of his.
It was such a fine distinction between courage and deadly recklessness.
When he was finished, she closed her wounds and pulled up a chair, sitting beside him with her palm against his once more.
It was a relief to watch the miraculous transformation of the injuries on his face. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but surface wounds, barely noticeable upon the morrow's arrival.
Whatever damage he had internally would likewise be discharged.
He was going to survive.
Sitting with him in silence, she thought about the pair of them, and the friendship that had sprouted from that misplaced adoration of hers. If anything happened to him, she would mourn him as a brother of her own blood, and there was naught that she would not do for him - further, she had the keen sense that the same was true on his side as well.
Indeed, he had done so much for her. He had taught her to drive and to fight with her fists, to shoot a gun and operate all manner of computer equipment. He had shown her movies and exposed her to music, bought her clothes that were other than the traditional white robe of the Chosen, took time to answer her questions about this side and make her laugh when she needed to.
She had learned so much from him. Owed him so much.
So it seemed. . . ungrateful. . . to feel dissatisfied with her lot. But of late she had experienced a strange irony: The more she was exposed to, the emptier her life felt. And yet as much as he urged her in opposite directions, she still looked upon her service to the Brotherhood as the most important thing she could do with her time -
As Qhuinn tried to reposition himself, he cursed from discomfort, and she reached out to calm him, stroking back his stringy hair. Only one eye of his worked, and it shifted over to her, the light behind the blue color exhausted and grateful.
A smile stretched her lips and she brushed his busted-up cheek with the very tips of her fingers. Strange, this platonic closeness they shared - it was an island, a sanctuary, and she valued it so much more than whatever heat she had once felt for him.
The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.
His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.
It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves - and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth -
The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.
Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed - at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.
He stopped short just inside the room. "I wanted to know how you. . . he. . . is doing. "
Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her - well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.
She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.
"Come in," she said. "Please - we're done here. "
Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles - on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.
His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. "You dumb son of a bitch. "
Layla's brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. "I beg your pardon. "