The wound to his neck was so much worse than she’d thought. And still he’d fought for her. Stayed in the skies. Manon shoved her hands against the deep bite wound, blood rushing past her fingers like water through a cracked dam. “Help is coming,” she told him, and found her voice to be a broken rasp. “They’re coming.” The Thirteen landed, Sorrel sprinting into the castle to no doubt drag a healer out if she had to, and then there were eleven pairs of hands on Abraxos’s neck. Staunching the flow of his blood. Pressing as one, to keep that precious blood inside him while the healer was found.
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