Page 54 of Midnight’s Captive (Stroke of Midnight #2)

Ash’s head flopped back against the chair, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. On the chair’s health monitor screen, his pulse was fluttery.

Oh shit.

“Ash!” Worry coursed through her and Taryn ran to his side. “Are you okay?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbled. His eyes opened and he looked around blearily.

She grabbed the water bottle that he’d been drinking from and tilted his head up. She’d fetched a straw from the bar so it would be easier for him to drink this time.

He swallowed greedily, his throat working as he emptied the bottle. He closed his eyes again and slumped against her.

She had to get him out of this damn chair.

To do that, she had to get him out of the network.

During the battle, she’d watched him slip deeper into that world. Every once in a while, he’d shout. She rarely understood what he said. Unable to do anything, she’d paced the room, not knowing—or understanding—what was going on. She never wanted to feel that helpless again.

Taryn gently tipped Ash’s head back. Now she wished she’d watched him insert the port. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I hope I do this right,” she whispered.

She kept his forehead pressed against her shoulder. His hair was damp. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her fingers over his neck, seeking the junction where his port met the chair.

Ah, there it was.

The skin around the port was slick with sweat. Taryn pinched the jack between the thumb and forefinger of her cyberarm and wrapped her other hand around his neck. “Here goes nothing.”

She applied steady pressure and pushed her hands apart. Millimeter by millimeter, she disengaged Ash from the chair. She was barely aware of the light under his shirt fading.

Oh, his tattoo. She’d wanted to see that in action, but this wasn’t the time.

He slumped against her, his forehead still pressed into her shoulder. She pulled her hand back and saw that her fingertips were red. Blood mixed with the sweat. This was her fault. She’d cut the port open.

She studied the back of his neck. It wasn’t bleeding steadily, just some mild weeping from the wound.

If only he’d let her cut the port open when she’d first asked. The wound would’ve had time to heal and she wouldn’t be freaked out that he’d plunged a mess of dirty wires into the gaping hole in his neck.

“I’m sorry, Ash.”

She couldn’t lean him back against the chair, not with that wound and the bloody jack protruding from it. She could drag him out of it, but he was dead weight. What if she dropped him?

Taryn draped his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her right arm around his waist for the best support. For a wiry guy, he was solid. She could ask Dani or Daryl for help, but she didn’t want to reveal Ash’s weakness.

Bending her knees, she tugged him out of the chair, then she half walked, half dragged him to the cot.

She put one knee on the thin mattress and tried to swing his weight around so she could lower him. Miscalculating, Taryn tumbled onto the cot, with him on top of her. “Sorry!”

Even though he was dead weight, there was something comforting about having him pressed against her.

Trying to disturb him as little as possible, Taryn shifted their positions so they were side by side. She smushed down a pillow and rested his head against it, making sure that the back of his neck wasn’t touching anything.

Then she curled up on the edge of the cot, her head on her arm, watching him.

Dark circles sat under his eyes and his cheekbones stood out sharply. He looked old and worn out from just a few hours in the chair.

How could he do this to himself?

She knew the answer. He’d do anything for his sister.

“Ash. Wake up.” She reached across and laid her hand on his chest.