Beside me, Legion moans.
"What time is it?" I mutter, voice raspy and unfamiliar.
He doesn't answer.
I roll over, reaching for him, my fingers searching for the familiar warmth of his skin, the raised edges of his tattoos. My hand meets heat—intense heat—and I pull back instinctively.
Suddenly, I'm wide awake. Sitting up, looking down at him.
"Legion?" I whisper.
He's burning up. That's why I'm so hot. His skin radiates fever like a furnace, the sheets beneath him damp with sweat. His chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shallow and uneven.
"Legion?" I touch his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him. "Hey. Wake up."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of his eyelids.
"Legion." I shake him, gentle at first, then with more force. "Legion, come on. Open your eyes."
His head lolls to the side, unresponsive. Panic starts to build in my chest, a tight, squeezing sensation that makes it hard to breathe.
Outside, the commotion grows louder.
Someone shouts an order.
Boots pound across gravel.
A door slams.
I tune it out, focusing only on Legion. I slide out of bed, grab the first things I find—a pair of shorts, one of Legion's t-shirts—and pull them on quickly. Back at his side, I press my palm to his forehead. He's so hot, his skin slick with sweat.
"Legion!" I'm shaking him harder now, desperation creeping into my voice. "Please wake up.Please."
That's when I see it—his brand. The Badlands "B" they burned into his chest the night of his patching ceremony. It's angry red, swollen, with yellow-green pus oozing from the center. The skin around it is hot to the touch, streaked with red lines that spread outward like poison.
"Oh, my god." My stomach lurches. "Legion. Legion, wake up." I'm saying his name over and over, like a prayer, like if I say it enough times he'll have to answer. "Legion, please. Please wake up."
He doesn't move. Doesn't respond. His breathing remains shallow, too fast.
A siren bleeps outside, cutting through the shouting. One short burst, then silence.
I rush to the window, pushing aside the blinds. Down in the compound, chaos unfolds. Men running in every direction, shouting to each other. And at the gate a sheriff's cruiser, lights flashing.
Two deputies standing beside it, hands on their holsters.
What the fuck is happening?
I turn back to Legion, who looks like death itself, then to the window again. I can't process both emergencies at once. Legion needs a doctor, but there are cops at the gate, and no one's coming to help us.
I need to find someone. Anyone.
I bolt from the room, bare feet slapping against the worn floorboards as I race down the hall, then take the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with a young man at the bottom.
"Where's Diesel?" I demand. "Or Brick? Or—anyone? Legion's sick. Really sick."
The kid just shakes his head, pushing past me, running toward the front door.
The main room is a blur of leather cuts and weapons. Men move with purpose, faces grim, no one even glancing my way. I spot Mama Jo near the bar and rush toward her.
