Then fingers as cold and brutal as steel bands dug into her wrists. She couldn’t choke back her gasp—equal parts startled and pained. What could have possibly set him off?

Then she realized. Her magic in his system, of course. Although “healers” existed in Vesria, they were more often assassins, trained to destroy their targets from within.

Wren jerked against his grasp. “Easy!”

Even like this, frail and faded, Hal was strong. Strong enough to kill me. But with skin-to-skin contact, her magic was a weapon as lethal as his eyes. The Healing Touch’s silver light flickered wildly between them, blanching him white as bone.

“If you don’t let go, I will sever every tendon in your hand before you even blink. Think careful—”

Before she finished her threat, he wrenched her forward.

He moved so fast, she couldn’t track him, couldn’t react. For one breathless moment, she was suspended and off-balance. The next, her face was shoved roughly against the mattress. Her teeth clacked together, the impact reverberating through her skull.

As he bore his weight into her, he twisted her arms behind her back and wedged his knee into the space between her scapulae. Over the sound of her short, panicked gasps, she could hear nothing. How could she be so stupid? She’d had the advantage, but Hal had been trained in combat since he was a child.

If he pulled, he’d dislocate both her shoulders.

“Wren Southerland.” The sound of her name, so flat and disinterested, settled like a winter chill beneath her skin. Gooseflesh spread along her ensnared arms. Although roughened by disuse and illness, his voice was dark and rich as a woodwind. “It seems I do know you.”

“Let go of me!”

She struggled, only for him to dig his knee harder into her spine. Her rotator cuff crackled in protest, desperately struggling to hold bone to socket. If she couldn’t touch him, her magic was useless. She was useless. Death at his hands was said to come fast and silent, like an injection of barbiturate. But incapacitating her like this meant he intended to savor this. How much pain could she stand before she begged to look into his eyes?

The sound of wheezing cut through the haze of her fear. His breathing grew thicker, more faltering, until a hacking cough bent him double. All at once, his hold went slack.

This time, she did not hesitate. She grabbed his leg—the first thing she found—and sheared through muscle like fabric. Her traitorous heart lurched as he choked back a sound of pain. He rolled off her, and Wren scrabbled off the bed, hands raised and blazing with magic.

“Don’t move.” The sound of her own voice startled her. Such a sound, so wild and raw, couldn’t have come from her. “Or I’ll—”