Chapter 72

BRAYDEN WAS already staring at him, that familiar disbelief shining overbright in his bleary, pain-filled gaze. Wil didn't say anything, didn't have to. He shucked the bandaging quickly, impatiently, eager not just for the proof it would grant, but to finally be rid of the dirty, bulky thing. He grinned when he got a look at his knuckles--not swollen, slightly twisted knobs of bone and flesh, but straight and bending only where they were supposed to. He held his hand down where Brayden could see it and wriggled his fingers.

"It doesn't hurt."

Brayden stared for quite some time. before he ventured a shaky reach, as much as he could. Wil slid from the chair and crouched down next the bed. He dipped his head and allowed Brayden to slide rough, cold fingers over Wil's cheekbone, even went so far as to guide Brayden's fingertips to trace the sockets of his eyes, still tender and no doubt as green-black as the fingers had been.