Page 123 of The Chance

“Jordan!”

I whip around in slow motion at the sound of my name and the world tilts when another bodyguard rushes to me.

“Lugh.Lugh. Where are they?”

The larger man huffs through a tight jaw and pushes me back around. “Prepping for surgery.”

My heart sinks even farther.

“Mac?”

He shakes his head, telling me he doesn’t know, at the same time an alarm rings over the PA system.

A sound we both trained to but hoped to fucking God we’d never hear.

Someone’s coding.

And we fucking run.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Jordan

At 8:41, Peach’s heartstopped.

For two minutes, the man that pulled my drummer from the burning wreckage was technically dead.

Blood loss. Shock. Complications.

There’s a whole myriad of reasons why it did, but none of them matter right now.

Because I’m trading off between staring at the squiggling heartline of his monitor and the rise of his chest.

He saved Mac’s life.

There’s a paper cup of sludge the hospital has passed off as coffee cooling in my grip and a pack of half-eaten Skittles on the stand next to me. Neither are sitting well in my rolling gut.

It’s been days.

Dayssince I answered Mac’s call and changed the course of everything.

I was supposed to pick him up.

I was supposed to keep him safe.

It should have been me in that car, not him. Notthem.

Instead … he’s in the next room, comatose, with swelling on his brain.

And Peach is laying here with several broken ribs, bandaged burns, a maze of stiches and staples holding him together, and discoloration darkening his too-pale skin with each passing minute.

“How is he?”

I sniff at the rasp of Mac’s twin and don’t bother hiding the old tear tracks tightening my face when I glance up.

“He’s alive,” I croak out with rough, unused vocals.

My eyes burn all over again. Chest tightening.

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