The shock was written across every face present, Malin's included. Yet it was not pain that rooted him in place, nor the bitter cold pressing against his skin. It was Rhaegal's grip, tight and desperate as though letting go would shatter Malin into pieces too fragile to be gathered again. His lips pressed firmly over the wound, sealing, drawing, restraining the blood before it could spill. Malin felt the heat of Rhaegal's breath fan against his skin, his fangs grazing the tender flesh of his wrist. His heart thundered as if it sought escape from his chest.
For one suspended moment, Malin did not know whether to tear himself free or sink into the hold entirely. He could feel the tremor in Rhaegal's shoulders, hear the low, strangled sound that caught in his throat.
