She closed the door. Crossed the room. Sat on the edge of the bed.
He did not open his eyes. But his hand moved — a fractional shift on the mattress, his fingers uncurling, reaching for something he could not see.
She took his hand.
His skin was burning. Not the cool marble she was accustomed to but a feverish, terrified heat that pulsed against her palm like a second heartbeat. The silver was doing this. Turning his own body against him, forcing it to burn in a desperate attempt to purge what it could not expel.
"I need to see the wound," she said quietly.
Nothing.
"Caelan. I need you to wake up enough to help me. I cannot do this alone. I do not know enough about what you are, about how your body heals, about what the silver does. I need you to tell me what to do."
His eyelashes flickered. A thin line of gray appeared beneath them, clouded and distant.
"Bossy," he murmured. "Always... so bossy."
