Mari's Mistake (Icehome, #10)

by Ruby Dixon

Somehow, a week passes and he doesn’t die. I feel hollow and thin, strung out and helpless. My cootie’s stopped humming to his for long stretches of time, and when it does, it no longer feels good. Now, when it hums, it makes me ache all over. It makes me feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight for too long, and I’m waiting to snap in half. I know it’s bothering him, too, because sometimes when his khui begins to resonate, he grimaces, even when unconscious. If he had enough energy to get hard, I’d ride him until he got me pregnant, just so the resonance could stop torturing us both. But he needs every bit of energy just to survive. Because…he’s not getting better. He’s not dying, but there’s still something terribly wrong. His wounds have crusted over and are red around the edges, and his veins are dark as even his blood is polluted. His face grows thinner and more emaciated, and his ribs are so prominent that I count them all at night when I can’t sleep. It hurts me to look at him…and it hurts me to look away. I sleep at his side, my fingers laced with his, listening as his breathing rasps shallowly and he struggles to make his lungs work.