“If the attack is over, security will do a sweep. Might as well leave it open or Kincaid’s goons will break it down.”

“I wish that made me feel better.” I force myself to go to him and tentatively lift the cloth to examine his wound. A blob of red blood oozes not far from his muscle.

“Flesh wound,” Erik says in a casual voice, but I catch him wince again as the air hits it.

“Is there a bullet in there?” My words are strangled with some unrecognizable emotion. I want to cry and kiss him at the same time.

“It went straight through,” he says. “It’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”

“I can fix it,” I remind him.

“I wasn’t going to ask. I could do it myself, but two hands are better than one when patching,” Erik says. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”

I stop him. “Walk me through it.” Taking a steadying breath, I pour a little whiskey on my fingers. I’m less convinced of its disinfectant powers, but there’s no harm in trying. Further inspection reveals an exit wound on the other side of his arm.

“Concentrate,” Erik says. “See the strands.”

It sounds so serious and profound coming from Erik that I giggle, but he balks at my nervous titter and draws his arm away.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can do this.”

“Once you stop laughing and see the strands,” Erik begins, a bit sourly. “Draw together the damaged ones and connect them. It’s like the loom, Ad. Fix the hole.”

I close my eyes and focus on the fear pounding its war song in my chest. When I reopen them I can see the strands that weave together to make Erik’s arm and a stream of pulsing red fibers on his biceps calls out to me. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I work at the shrill, off-key notes of the damaged strands until they grow harmonious, knitting together and healing.

“Not bad,” Erik says when I step back to survey my work, the room resolving into a world of physical objects.

Suddenly exhausted from the effort, I drop down on his bed. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the pillow to my chest. He wipes the excess blood from the newly patched wound and takes the ruined washcloths to the bathroom. As he goes, I consider what to say to him about Dante and my mother. I don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. I’m just not sure why. To make myself feel better? To talk through it? Those reasons make sense, but one thing holds me back. An unspoken tension that hangs between Erik and me. Talking about my mother and Dante means I’ll have to talk about the issues that he and I are constantly skirting around.

I mention it anyway.

“It’s not too late to stop him,” Erik says.

“Should I?” I ask, confusion infusing my voice. I know I should stop him, but deep down, I don’t want to. I’m not sure why though.

“No,” Erik says in a firm voice.

“Why?” I ask, wondering how he can be so certain.

“Because he loves her,” he says.

“I know that. But loving someone doesn’t mean you make the best decisions about them,” I point out.

“No. Love can be blinding,” Erik agrees. “But if he believes she’s in danger, he’s already thought through his options. He’s chosen the best one.”

“Maybe someone who can be more objective should be making the decision,” I say.

“Perhaps, but someone who is more objective won’t fight as hard as the person who loves her,” Erik says in a low voice. “One man will step aside when confronted while another will die. If you try to fight him, consider that.”

We aren’t only talking about Dante and my mother anymore.

“He’ll lose her either way,” I murmur.

“Doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t try,” Erik says.

“She loved someone else though. My father, my uncle…” I struggle with putting words to my thoughts, trying to sort out my tangled family tree. “It’s so confusing. Dante isn’t my father, not in my heart.”

“I understand,” Erik says.

“My father died for me and my mother,” I say.

“He was a good man,” Erik says. “A better man than I am.”

“You’ve leapt more than once for me—and for your brother.” It’s the first time I let it slip that I know we’re talking about the three of us as much as we’re talking about the convoluted love triangle in my family.

“I’d leap for you again,” Erik says.

I drop my head onto the pillow to avoid his eyes, and at the foot of the bed I spot a book. My book. I reach for it, running my fingers over the green canvas cover.

“Sorry,” Erik says. “You left it here weeks ago. I meant to return it, but…”

He doesn’t finish the thought and I lift my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“I was reading it,” he admits.

“What did you think?” I ask, pulling the book of sonnets closer. I trace the gold-foil Shakespeare on the cover.

“I comprehend about half of it,” he says honestly. “But it’s beautiful.”

“I’ll never understand why people in Arras don’t write anymore,” I murmur.

“You don’t?” Erik asks. “It’s easy enough to understand.”

“Do tell,” I challenge him.

“Why aren’t there films anymore? Beyond Stream-approved programming. Why only the Bulletin and fashion catalogues?”