Hazel’s POV

Blood.

That was the first thing I smelled when we stopped running. Not pine, not dirt, not the river we’d been following for an hour.

Blood. His blood.

Alaric leaned against a boulder, jaw clenched so tight I heard his teeth grind. His left leg was at the wrong angle. His shirt was gone, shredded when he shifted, and his chest was a map of bruises and cuts. The worst one ran from his ribs to his hip. Still bleeding.

“Let me see,” I said. He didn’t look at me. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You keep saying that.” I dropped to my...