Breath of Life, Edge of Death

The blood on my hands was still warm as I pressed them against Jaxon's chest, trying desperately to focus my healing energy. I was running on fumes, my body trembling with exhaustion.

"Come on, come on," I whispered, watching his face for any sign of improvement. His skin remained frighteningly pale beneath the blood and dirt.

Silas crouched beside me, his glasses smudged and crooked, his face tight with worry. "Where the hell is the help they promised?" he snapped, glancing toward the road. "They said ten minutes. It's been at least fifteen."

I didn't have the energy to respond. Every ounce of concentration I had was directed at Jaxon, at the fragile pulse beneath my fingers. His injuries were catastrophic—broken bones, internal bleeding, a head wound that terrified me with its severity.

"Keep going," Silas urged, his hand on my shoulder. "You're keeping him stable."