“Stop!" I sent my open hand sailing and slapped Talbot across his face. He let go of the spear and stared down at me-that rage burning in his eyes. Then he blinked and clutched his palm over the red hand-shaped mark I'd left on his face. "What was that for!" "He submitted.Let.Him.Go.”

“He tells me its going to be okay until all the words blur together into a hum that makes me close my eyes and I start to go away and five, ten, fifteen minutes later, I'm aware of my hand sliding down his lap and then nothingness and then the gentle sensation of his index finger pressing into my open palm and then his hand is at my face, running his fingers across my skin and I'm so awake.”

“Run,” he whispered. “Run.”“No, Rand,” I said, brushing the dirt from his face. “I’m tired of running.”“Forgive me, please.” He clutched my hand as his eyes beseeched me through tears of pain.“You’re forgiven.”He sighed once, then stopped breathing. The shine in his brown eyes dulled. I pulled his hood over his head.”

“Her hand cracked across his face, a slap that rocked him back on his heels. he put his hand to his cheek, more in surprise than pain. "What the hell was that for?""The other ten percent," she said, and they rode the rest of the way down the street in silence.”

“He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm - like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet.”

“I roll the covers back up over him and take his hand, noticing how well our palms fit together and thinking back to just after the last time he saved me—when he took my hand and told me that we’d always be together.I lower my head to his chest and continue to squeeze his palm. Tears fall onto the bedsheets, dampening the fabric just above his heart. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, over and over again.A few moments later, there’s a twitching sensation inside my hand. Ben’s fingers glides over my thumb. ‘Sorry for what?” he breaths. His voice is raspy and weak.I lift my head to check his face. His eyelids flutter. The monitor starts beeping faster. And his lips struggle to move.“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him, searching for the nurse’s call buzzer.“Please,” he whispers, his eyes almost fully open now. “Don’t let go.”“I won’t,” I promise, gripping his hand even harder.”