Cam.
Stark fear hit me. I wrenched my arms up and gripped the base of my helmet, pushing and pushing, willing it to move. But the fucker was stuck—so was I. I tasted blood on my lips. Thick, viscous blood—my legs...
Fuck.
I couldn’t feel them at all, and that thought settled in, dissipating the anxiety that had swamped me, leaving in its place more of that weird-as-fuckstillness. My eyes were open. Unblinking. But I couldn’t see much. My lungs moved, claiming air, but I couldn’t feel it—I didn’tneedit. Not here.
Whereverherewas.
I stopped trying to figure it out. Drifted. Did I sleep?
Couldn’t tell.
Didn’t care.
Willow.
Cam.
Nicky.
Fuck.
Awareness slammed into me again. I pushed harder against my helmet, dimly registering the wail of sirens, and this time it moved, slipping over my chin, smearing blood and gifting me some clearer vision.
I took a deeper breath, shouts reaching me. A voice I didn’t recognise, but somehow felt familiar.
Was I supposed to shout back?
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
I felt tired again, my consciousness faltering. Slipping away?—
Something moved.
It wasn’t me.
Metal crunched, groaning against concrete. Nausea hit me, but I didn’t puke. I couldn’t. Literally, I couldn’t be bothered.
So. Fucking. Weird.
“Hey.Hey. You all right down there? Can you hear me?”
My eyes fluttered, vision solidifying as a bloke dropped down beside me.
Fireman jacket. Helmet. Cut cheekbones and eyes like emeralds—warm, friendly, and two shades greener than any I’d ever seen.
I know him.
The realisation hit me in the same moment it hit him, and his eyes widened. “Stop the lights, boyo. I know you. You’re Locke’s mate. Nash, right?”
I nodded, braving the dizziness that came with the movement, my tongue cemented to the roof of my mouth as I sifted my sluggish brain for this dude’s name.
Locke.
Logan.
