I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I broke through the shock that had settled over me. It couldn’t have been long—none of us had moved since Ms. Dale had shot Marina—but it was still too long, considering.

I launched myself over to Viggo, cursing myself for not getting back to him sooner.

Blood was pooled around him, and he was pale—paler than I’d ever seen him. I dropped to my knees, blood soaking through my pants. My hands were shaking as I reached for the hole in his chest. Less blood was trickling from it than before, and I didn’t see Viggo’s chest moving.

Shuddering, I reached to his throat to see if I could feel a pulse. I pressed against the vein and waited to feel anything—a reassuring bump under my fingertips that told me there was still a chance—but there was nothing.

I was breathing in sharp gasps, hyperventilating as I checked his wrist for a pulse.

“No,” I whispered. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. His head lolled side to side, but he didn’t move.

“No,” I said more insistently, shaking him harder.

“No!” I screamed, slapping him across the face hard.

I covered my mouth with my hands, trying to contain the scream that was building in my chest, wrapping around my heart like a heavy chain, tearing it apart.

I heard Tim moving up behind me. I felt his hand press down on my shoulder.

Looking up at him, I removed my hand from my mouth. “He’s dead,” I whispered, not trusting myself to speak a decibel louder for fear of releasing that horrible scream.

Tim’s grey eyes flitted over Viggo’s body. Licking his lips, he knelt down next to me, and placed his hand on Viggo’s chest. I watched as he cocked his head, seemingly listening to something.

His eyes met mine, and he grabbed my hand, replacing his hand with my own.

“Tim,” I protested, not wanting to feel the emptiness where Viggo’s heart once beat strong and true.

Pressing one hand over my mouth, he placed another hand over mine. I looked at him, a mixture of confusion and anger rolling through me. Then I felt it. A small little thump under the palm of my hand.

Eyes wide, I looked up at Tim. He reached up and pointed to himself, and then pointed upstairs. I stared at him blankly.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“He wants to go upstairs to get medical supplies,” Ms. Dale said in a tired voice behind me.

Whipping my head around, I looked at her. She was still leaning heavily on the counter, her face weary. I opened my mouth, prepared to tear her apart for even daring to speak to me after everything, when her words hit me.

Medical supplies.

I was an idiot. I should’ve been halfway upstairs by now, and instead here I was, wasting time mourning someone who wasn’t dead yet.

I suddenly felt alive with purpose. Rising to my feet, I started barking orders.

“Tim, you press down on that wound. If you can, there’s an exit wound on his back—get something on it to help slow down the bleeding. He doesn’t have much blood left. Ms. Dale, see if there are any of those blood patch things in the first aid kit, and then apply as many as you can.”

“Violet…” Ms. Dale started to say, her voice filled with doubt.

“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off. “You will do this, right now, or I will kill you myself.”

Her brown eyes examined me closely for a second, and then she nodded. “All right.”

I watched as she moved into the office, grabbing the first aid kit from the desk. While she was gone, I knelt next to Tim.

“Tim, where’s the bag?” I whispered. He was already following my orders, his hands stained red with Viggo’s blood. He looked up at me, and then his eyes flicked back toward the opposite side of the room and then back to me. “All right. Don’t show Ms. Dale, okay?”

His head bobbed up and down. I straightened up just as Ms. Dale came out of the office. I crossed over to the counter while she knelt next to Viggo. Picking up the gun she had discarded, I turned.

“Ms. Dale—you know more about first aid than I do. What do I need from upstairs?”

Ms. Dale was applying a patch to Viggo’s neck. She paused and looked at me, her brown eyes studying me. “A lot,” she replied blithely.

I grit my teeth—this was already taking too long. “Be more specific,” I said in an icy tone that promised pain.

She sighed and rested back on her heels. “Violet, he is close to death. I’m not sure there is anything in that room that can save him.”

A huff of air escaped my lungs as I eyed her. “Melissa,” I said, using her first name. “Give me a list, and get out of my way or I will kill you. You are wasting my time.”

“He’s a Patrian,” she hissed, straightening. “You can’t ask me to help the enemy.”

I let out a sharp bitter laugh and she stepped back in surprise, her brown eyes wide. “You are so full of it, Melissa,” I hissed. “You just killed an heir to the throne of Matrus.” I let out a laugh as her gaze drifted toward Marina. “You’re one of us now, whether you like it or not. Matrus won’t take you back, and you’d die in Patrus. So either get on my team, or get the hell out.”

Ms. Dale stared at me for a long moment, her face an impassive mask. “He means that much to you?” she asked.

I met her gaze without flinching. “Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded, holding her ground.

I thought about it for a second, a thousand reasons racing through my mind at once. “Because he’s ahead in the whole saving lives department, and I can’t let him die while I’m still in his debt.”

It was a glib reply, and didn’t even begin to touch what I was feeling. I owed Viggo so much more than I could possibly give. He had saved my life, multiple times. I had betrayed him, and he had chosen to forgive me. He had given me his trust and his compassion. I might not be ready to admit it yet, but I was in love with Viggo Croft. I couldn’t let him die.

A flash of irritation danced across her face. “This isn’t a game, Violet,” she said.

“I know that, Melissa,” I replied. “We all owe him our lives, even you. He carried you for miles with red flies chasing us. So get to work.”

She hesitated for a split second, and then nodded, sinking back to her knees. “You’ll need more blood patches, a bandage, portable scanner, cauterizer…”

I listened as she listed off items, making a mental check list. As she wound down, I was already heading toward the door.

“Don’t let him die before I get back,” I called as I left.

I ran. It was five flights of stairs and four levels up and down. I was exhausted, bruised, likely had a concussion, broken ribs, and emotionally damaged.

None of it mattered though—not with Viggo’s life on the line. I made good time up the stairs, in spite of my lungs burning and sweat pouring from me with exertion. It was pain and pain was good at the moment—it was helping to keep me on my feet, in spite of my exhaustion.

I reached the last landing and stepped through the open door, my mind intent on finding what I needed.

Rushing to the cabinets, I threw them open and began tossing item after item on to the bed. I ran through the list Ms. Dale gave me, taking extra care to make sure that I got everything she asked for, and then some.

I wiped sweat off my face with the back of my hand. Carefully, I arranged the items on the bed, listing them off to double check that they were there. After a moment’s pause, I carefully gathered the corners of the bedsheet, making a makeshift bag.

I tied the corners together tight, to ensure that they didn’t bounce around when I ran. A few of the more delicate items I held, not wanting them to break. After making sure one more time I had grabbed everything I needed, I carefully heaved the bag over my shoulder.

It was heavy, but not too heavy that I couldn’t handle it. Running wasn’t going to be a problem, hopefully.

Once again, I was feeling the clock ticking down, pressure mounting in me to do something. I stepped out into the hall and moved toward the door leading to the stairs. I stepped over the threshold, and took a deep breath.

Then I began to run. I began slowly at a light jog. My makeshift bag bounced against my back, but nothing inside it shifted out of place. I took the stairs two or three at a time, my heart already pounding in my chest.

Something was nagging me at the back of my mind—something I had overlooked—but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I raced through the living quarters and through the door to the next staircase, my mind whirling. The nagging sensation intensified, and I felt a spike of fear and anxiety.

I tried to push it away, but the hair on the back of my neck was standing on end as I entered the common greenhouse. I slowed down and came to a stop in the middle of the room.

Looking around, I couldn’t see anything out of place. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I turned around, staring back at the way I’d come. The door was open, and I couldn’t see anything lurking on the stairwell.

Frowning, I half turned back to resume running when I paused. Looking back, I stared at the door, suddenly confused.

The door leading to the stairwell down was open. I blinked, trying to process the implications of that. The door automatically closed after a few seconds, sealing itself—likely to keep each level secure in case of a breach. It took me a second to remember that the door from the stairs to the first level had been open as well. So had the one from the second level into the stairs. The door at the bottom of the stairs had been torn off, but the one on the opposite side was standing wide open.

The only way to keep the door open was to prop it that way. But from where I was standing, I couldn’t see anything keeping it from closing. I could examine it closer, but my instincts were telling me that was a bad idea.

In fact, my instincts were telling me that I was in great danger. I looked to the door on the other side of the room, surprised to find it open as well.

I hesitated. I remembered opening them on my way up. Maybe the system was broken somehow? The fight between Viggo and Marina had caused damage in the lab—maybe something had been damaged, and now the doors weren’t self-closing.

That didn’t explain the door I hadn’t opened on the top level though. Licking my lips, I decided the best course of action was to head downstairs and get back to the others, quickly and quietly.

I took a step toward the door. A small sound behind me of another footstep hitting the ground seconds after mine spurred me into motion.

I ran, grasping the bag bouncing on my back with a sweaty hand. I didn’t even look back—whether it was paranoia or there was something else in here with us—I knew I had to get to the others fast.

I leapt through the threshold, grabbing the handrail and using it to make a quick course change. I heard the footsteps behind me now, racing after me, and my heart picked up speed. I cleared the first landing, practically leaping down the next.

The door in front of me was closed, and I grabbed the hand wheel, spinning it hard, panic giving me adrenaline and speed.

Then something struck me hard from behind, and I collapsed on the floor, my vision blurring and going gray. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, when I felt something press over my mouth and nose. A strange chemical smell filled my nostrils as I inhaled.

Viggo’s pale face, spattered with blood, filled my mind, and I struggled to fight off the drowsiness that was overwhelming me.

And then the darkness was dragging me down.