I wake up with dirt under my nails and dried mud stiff in my hair, and for a few long seconds I do not recognize the ceiling above me or the weight of blankets over my body, because my mind feels like it has been wiped clean and put back wrong.
My throat is dry and my muscles ache. And there is a dull emptiness in my chest where the bond usually hums.
I blink slowly and turn my head, and Ezra is sitting beside my bed with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped together so tight that his knuckles are white.
He looks like he has not slept. His eyes are red around the edges, his jaw unshaven, and there is dried blood at the collar of his shirt that is not entirely his.
“You’re awake.” He says quietly, and the relief in his voice is restrained but unmistakable.
“Why wouldn’t
