Page 132 of Thorne
My arms are burning. The minutes I spent without oxygen took something from me: strength, endurance, something. But I don't stop. I can't stop.
Stayin'-alive—ah—ah—ah—ah—Stayin'-alive.
She was in the halon longer than I was. She stayed conscious through the whole upload. Minutes of typing while I suffocated behind her.
Then she took the mask off.
Did compressions on my chest until she couldn't anymore.
How long was she breathing halon? How long has her brain been without oxygen?
One-and-Two-and-Three-and-Four …
Too long.
The answer is too long.
Even if I bring her back, even if her heart starts beating, the damage might already be done. She might wake up and not be herself anymore.
She might not wake up at all.
"Don't you dare." My voice cracks. "Don't you dare leave me. Lily needs you. She loves you. You promised. You pinky promised."
Stayin'-alive—ah—ah—ah—ah—Stayin'-alive.
"You're the best math teacher she's ever had. You taught her she wasn't broken. You can't leave us. I love you."
The words come out broken. I've never said them before. Not to anyone. Not to the mother of my child, not to any woman who's shared my bed. But I'm saying them now, to a body on a concrete floor, to a woman who might already be gone.
"I need you. Do you understand? I need you to come back."
Under my palms, the stillness finally fractures. Her sternum gives a sharp, violent hitch, and then her entire body jerks off the concrete as if she's been hit by a live wire.
It isn't a breath; it's a collision. A choked, ragged gasp that sounds like glass shattering in her throat. Her lungs aren't just working—they're fighting, clawing back the oxygen the halon tried to steal.
"Julianna." Her name is a prayer I didn't know I had.
Her eyes fly open. They are wild, blown wide, and completely unfocused. She's not seeing the server racks or the hazy remains of the gas; she's seeing the void she just crawled out of. A violent spasm racks her frame, her fingers scraping frantically against the cold concrete as she tries to find purchase in a world that nearly let her go.
She coughs—a dry, racking sound that vibrates through my own chest—and for a second, she stops breathing again, her face contorting in panic.
"No, no. Stay with me. Breathe, Julianna. Just breathe."
I slide my arms under her, hauling her up and dragging her into my lap. I pull her back against my chest, pinning her to me so she can feel the erratic, thundering rhythm of my heart. I need her to calibrate her life to mine.
"You're okay." I bury my face in her damp hair, my voice cracking, the "Stayin' alive" rhythm finally fading into the background of her gasps. "I've got you. You're right here. I'm not letting go."
She hitches again, her hand coming up, fumbling at my tactical vest, her knuckles white as she grips the nylon. She's shaking—a fine, systemic tremor—but the blue is receding from her lips. The gray is being pushed back by a flush of frantic, living heat.
She's back.
The math is done, the ledger is closed, and for the first time in my life, the only thing that matters is the uneven, beautiful sound of her lungs filling with air.
"Thorne." Her voice is a rasp. Barely a whisper.
"I'm here."
"Phoenix?"
