Nate’s voice slices through a constant, monotonous beeping, ripping me from a deep, dark, oblivion. My eyes drags open, heavy, but his words are just a garbled mess, slipping past my ears as I try—and fail—to make sense of them.
The fire raging in my lungs keeps me from focusing on anything else. Each breath is a struggle, raw and searing, the ache spreading through my chest with every shallow inhale. I try to sit up, to ease the pressure, but a steady hand presses me gently back down.
“That is not a good idea,” a voice comes into focus. I turn my head to the right side of me to find a pale face staring down at me—russet-painted lips turned down to match the frown on her face. Ariah sighs. “You scared the crap out of us. Give our stress levels a chance to go down a notch, before you aim
