Page 199 of What We Become
FORTY-SIX
KNOX
Her voice cuts off.
“Fury. Say someth—”
Black.
Red. Flashing. Red again.
My hand is on her back. I can feel the ridge of her spine under my palm and the collar under my thumb. The D-ring is empty. My thumb goes back to it twice. She’s against my chest. Not moving. Warm. Still warm.
“Fury.”
Black.
I jolt. Glass in my hair. Something wet down the side of my face. Everything is wrong—we’re upside down, hanging in our seatbelts above the crushed roof. My legs are pinned. One of them, maybe both. Can’t tell. Can’t feel below my knee on the left side.
Red. Flash. Red.
Emergency lights. Hazards. The roof is caved and everything smells like gasoline and copper and the powdery tang of deployed airbags.
“Is Fury okay?” My voice sounds far away. Like someone else is using it. “Someone—is she—”
Black.
I suck in a breath. The red is still there. Still flashing. Slow. Or is that my brain?
I shift. Fury is in my arms. I haven’t let go. I won’t let go. My hand is on the back of her head and her face is in my neck and she’s breathing. She’s breathing. I can feel it against my skin, shallow and fast.
“Fury. Stay with me.”
Something drips onto my wrist. Blood. Mine or hers. Doesn’t matter.
“Eli.” I try to turn my head, but the seats and sagging airbags block my view of the front. “Eli?”
No answer.
“Holden?”
Nothing.
“Fuck. Milo? Micah?”
Their silence is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
Black.
Eyes open. Blinking.
Sirens. No—not sirens. Something else. Closer. A hissing. The engine or a tire or something leaking.
My vision swims. The blood in my left eye turns everything red on that side, like looking through a filter. I blink. Blink again. The world doesn’t clear.
Fury hasn’t moved.
“I’ve got you.” My lips are against her hair. I can taste the product she put in it and the blood from my mouth and somehow champagne from when everything was still—when we were still—
