I can’t breathe.
“I...” I gasp.
Cassian turns. He’s holding onto the edge of the medical table with his good hand, gripping it so hard the muscles in his forearm tremble.
His lips move, shaping my name.
I shake my head. I can’t speak. The room is spinning. The blue lights of the servers smear into streaks of neon. The floor tilts under my feet.
My knees buckle.
I hit the concrete floor hard.
I don’t feel the impact. I only feel the complete lack of air. I’m drowning on dry land, hyperventilating in short gasps that bring zero oxygen.
I wrap my arms over my head, curling into a tight ball.
“Iris.”
His voice is low. Rough.
He takes a heavy step toward me, but his boot drags. A wet, choked sound tears from his chest, and he hits the concrete pillar beside me, his knees finally buckling under the massive blood loss.
The sound snaps me out of the spiral.
The panic vanishes, instantly replaced by a sharp, terrifying spike of clarity.
I scramble over to him, dropping to my knees to keep him from collapsing completely against the pillar. His skin is clammy, covered in a cold, shock-driven sweat. The blood from his torn shoulder is dripping rapidly onto the pristine floor.
He’s bleeding out while I sit here falling apart.
“Your shoulder,” I gasp, shoving my own terror down. I grab his good arm, holding him steady.
He looks down at his arm, as if remembering it exists.
“It’s fine,” he says automatically. The lie is weak.
“It’s not fine.”
His shirt is totally saturated. The blood is pooling on the floor around his knees, mixing with the dust we tracked in.
“You’re still losing blood.” I push myself to my feet. My legs are shaky, but they hold. “The medical station. I need to fix you.”
A faint, tired smile touches his lips.
“Who says I need fixing?”
“Hush,” I quiet him. “Now, get up.”
I reach down and wedge my shoulder under his good arm. He hesitates. Then, he nods. He allows me to help him, putting his weight on me. He’s heavy and warm, and we stand together.
With cautious steps, we make our way to the stainless-steel table.
“Sit,” I command.
He sits on the edge of the table, hissing through his teeth as the movement jars his shoulder. Reaching across his body with his good hand, he pops the quick-release buckles on his tactical vest. The ceramic armor drops to the floor with a dead thud.
I look at the medical supplies laid out on the trays. Gauze. Iodine. Scalpels. Forceps. I don’t know how to use half of this. I arrange flowers. I don’t dress bullet wounds.
