Page 89 of The Order of Disorder

Silas gets in a hit—blood explodes from the man’s brow—but it only seems to make him angrier.

Silas claws toward the dropped gun and the Viking grabs his wrist and slams it into the floor once twice.

“You touch her again,” he roars, “you die for it.”

Silas snarls, blood in his teeth. “Oh, I hope you’re not the possessive type,” he says, grinning through the pain. “Every man in this club has been inside her, you know. I personally planned to make an evening of it. If you’re nice, I might let you have a turn—”

A fist slams into his mouth mid-word. Then to the throat. Silas gurgles, chokes. I see the fear in his eyes as the man wraps a hand around Silas’s jaw, the other bracing his temple—and twists.

There’s a snap, and Silas goes still.

Everything narrows.

My fingers tingle. My breath comes too shallow. I think I’m forgetting to breathe. I try to take a breath, but I don’t think I know how.

The man just stares down at Silas, blood streaking his face, lips parted, eyes wild. Then he turns and looks at me, and I see something that doesn’t make sense.

A spark of recognition. A shape I used to know.

I think I whisper his name.

I think I dream it.

Then…arms lifting me.

My head slumps sideways against a chest. Steady. Solid. Familiar.

My pulse skips and falters. My sense of balance overturns, like I’m falling through the floor.

His mouth moves, but I can’t hear him. I can’t understand.

Someone is saying my name. Over and over.

Gunfire. Shouting. The ground jolts under us. He’s running. Carrying me out through the front doors.

I’m so tired. So cold.

There’s a van with open doors. Lights on inside. Shadows moving. Voices yelling.

Then black.

CHAPTER TWENTY

NOTHINGNESS IS SOFT, like velvet inside my skull, and I want to stay wrapped in it. But the velvet slips, and a tiny stone of awareness rolls loose inside my head.

I drift up through black water. Somewhere above, metal groans. A tire squeals. A man curses under his breath. Something brushes my cheek. Another touch at my throat. Voices bleed through the cotton buffering my awareness.

“Resp’s six a minute. She dives again, I’m pushing it.”

“Do it now.”

Something white-hot and sharp slams into my thigh. Light explodes behind my eyelids, and fire races up my bones, through my ribcage, and spears my heart. Air detonates in my lungs. I arch, cough bile, and every buried nerve riots back to life.

I try to scream but it’s only a rasp. My own heartbeat drowns me.

“Stay with me, Max.” The voice slices through the roar—sharp, bossy, impossible. Damian.

How?