Page 63 of North’s Claim

Iron bursts in with half the Saints', bullets screaming past my ears, muzzle flashes strobing the walls. The warehouse turns into a hurricane of noise, shouting, boots pounding, guns cracking.

Soul’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Nyxa! Focus! My voice! Now!”

I stagger back to the chain lever, blood running down my temple, and start cranking again. My vision blurs, but I don’t stop. The chains drop farther, until Rook’s feet hit the ground, then Soul’s. My arms feel like they’re tearing at the sockets.

North crashes down beside me, heavy and limp. “North!” I grab his face, shaking him, blood slick under my hands. “Come on, come on, wake up, dammit!” Nothing. Not a twitch. Not even the rise of his chest. “No, no, no, no, “ My voice cracks. “Come on, you stubborn bastard!”

And then Myka’s there again. He hauls me back against him, my spine pressing into his chest. One arm snakes around my waist; the other shoves a knife up under my jaw. I can feel the blade’s edge, sharp and cold, right against my pulse.

“Move, and I open her from ear to ear!” he roars.

No one moves.

The whole platoon, Saints', Bullet, even a few Black Panthers, stand frozen. Outside, the war rages, engines screaming and gunfire rattling like a storm, but in here, the world has gone still.

North’s sprawled on the floor, pale and still, and they’re all in my fucking way. No one can get to him. No one can help him.

My eyes lock on Iron. “Shoot!”

“Hellcat—”

“Do it, you fucking coward! You gonna stand there and watch your Prez die?”

His jaw tightens.

I snarl, yanking against Myka’s grip even as the knife bites deeper. “Then fucking do it!”

Iron doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move.

My voice breaks and I burst into tears when realization hits me. “My life has no meaning without him.”

And then I throw my whole weight back into Myka, driving my elbow into his ribs.

The knife slices my neck, hot pain blooming across my skin, and then gunfire explodes around me. Someone screams and the world tilts sideways, swallowed in black.

Chapter 22

North

Iwake to the steady beep of a monitor, the burn of antiseptic in my nose, and the faint sound of someone snoring. For a second, I’m convinced I’m dreaming. Hell, maybe I didn’t make it at all.

Then my eyes adjust.

Stitch is passed out in the chair by the window, chin tucked to his chest. Rook’s stretched out on the couch, boots still on. Iron’s got his arms crossed, head tipped back against the wall, asleep like he doesn’t give a shit about neck pain.

It’s too peaceful. Too still.

Something’s wrong.

The fog in my head clears just enough for memory to come back in jagged flashes: chains, blood, Nyxa’s face, Myka’s hands on her. My stomach knots, bile clawing up my throat.

The door slams open.

“Rise and shine, fuckers.” Soul’s voice blasts through the room. He’s grinning, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Prez’s awake.”

Iron jolts upright. Stitch blinks. Rook mutters a curse. All eyes swing my way.

I push up on my elbows. Pain detonates in my ribs, white-hot and mean. I grit my teeth and growl, “Where’s Nyxa?”