The moment the instructors cleared out, I dropped the act.
The cane slipped from my hand. It hit the floor with a soft clatter I barely registered. My hands were already reaching for Nine.
He hadn't moved. Not since the last blow. Still kneeling, back bowed, head down like he didn't know he was allowed to breathe.
You can breathe now, I told him through the bond. You can move. It's over.
He twitched at first. Then slowly—so slowly—lifted his head.
I caught him before he collapsed forward.
His body was warm, too warm, and he was trembling all over. I gathered him into my arms like I might be able to hold all the pain in one place and press it out of him with my body.
"It's okay," I murmured aloud this time, letting my fingers find the curve of his back, the trembling muscles along his shoulders. "You did everything right."
He didn't speak, but the bond pulsed weakly with something like relief. And something else. Something more tentative.
I didn't break, he whispered in my head.
No, I agreed. You didn't.
He curled closer, burying his face in my neck like he needed the scent of me to remember what safety felt like. I stroked his hair and rocked him gently, murmuring quiet nothings I wasn't even aware of.
It felt so different now.
Now that the bond was alive and thrumming between us—we were in sync. Each touch was amplified. Each breath shared. Even the silence had weight.
I helped him sit upright again, careful not to jar the places where the cane had struck hardest.
"I want to get the salve," I said gently. "Will you let me clean you up?"
He nodded against my shoulder.
Only if you stay close, he added.
Always.
I took him to my room instead of his.
I couldn't bear the sterile cold of the observation quarters tonight.
He sat on the edge of my bed, watching me move around the room with big, steady eyes. I brought out the salve, a clean cloth, a fresh shirt. Every time I paused to look at him, he was still watching.
Like I was the only thing anchoring him to this place.
And maybe I was.
When I knelt in front of him and gently pulled his legs into my lap, he didn't resist. He just watched. Curious. Trusting.
He didn't even flinch when I touched the bruises.
Only whispered, Your hands are warm.
"Good," I whispered back. "Then this won't hurt."
The bond swelled with his emotions as I worked—hesitant pleasure, a kind of quiet awe. The pain was still there, but it had dulled now, wrapped in the comfort of something else.
Of us.
When I was done, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against mine.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Thank you for letting me be yours.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because for once, I didn't have to say anything at all.
The bond said everything.