“Even more reason to get out of here, I guess,” I say weakly. “How are we going to do that?”
They all exchange looks.
None of them answer.
And then, without warning, something in me snaps.
One second, I’m grounded. The jacket is heavy in my arms, the asphalt solid beneath my hip. The next, it’s all gone. The pressure, the weight, the texture—just gone. Not slowly. It just… cuts out.
Then it slams back. A jolt through my spine. And again, gone. Back. Gone. Faster and faster.
My body can’t seem to hold itself in place.
“Um,” I manage, but my voice falters. It sounds off, distant. Like it’s echoing from somewhere else. “Guys?”
My limbs twitch. Muscles seize and release without rhythm. My skin feels wrong, raw, like the air’s too much against it. My vision blurs, doubles, then triples, then splits apart.
“What the hell…” I whisper.
“Skye.”
Cassian’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s suddenly crouched in front of me, and the chaos in my body suddenly feels like it’s all being funneled toward him.
I blink, but his face doesn’t disappear. He grabs my forearms; not gently, not sweetly, just there, decisive and firm like everything else he does.
“Breathe,” he says. “Right now. In through your nose. Do it.”
“W-what…”
“Just do it.”
I inhale, shaky and shallow.
“Deeper,” he snaps, like a drill sergeant who’s personally offended by my panic. “Again. Pull it in.”
I do.
And again.
The spinning slows. With each passing moment, it gets better.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do as he says again.
And this time, it’s a mistake.
Cassian is too close now, his gaze like a punch to the chest. I don’t even know how he got so close to me so fast but his eyes are dark, intense, scanning me like he’s memorizing every detail of me. There’s tension in his jaw, in his shoulders. His hands haven’t left my arms. He’s holding me like I might vanish if he loosens his grip.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened to you,” he growls, “but you’ve got this. Yeah?”
Something about the way he says it makes my throat tighten.
He exhales sharply, like I’m testing his patience, like he doesn’t have time for this, but then one hand moves, slow and rough, up to the back of my neck. His thumb brushes my hairline.
“Get your shit together,” he orders.
And just like that, I try,reallytry, to focus on anything besides the sickening sensation of my insides unraveling.
