I stand beside Tink's hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the tight swaddle of blankets. Eight hours since we pulled her from that hellhole, and the claiming bond pulses between us like a second heartbeat, raw and insistent. The bite on my arm throbs in time with it, a physical reminder of our supernatural connection. She looks impossibly small against the white sheets, her unseeing eyes closed in fitful sleep as machines track her vital signs with methodical ...