Page 42 of The Order of Disorder
A small black dome with a tiny glass lens at the center.
As black and beady as Silas’s eyes in real life.
CHAPTER TEN
THE HOURS CRAWL. So does the sweat. It moves over my skin like ants.
I lie still for so long I forget how to move, but the second I stir, even slightly, it starts. Again and again and again.
First it’s my skin. It feels too tight, then too loose. Like it’s going to crack, and then like it might slip off my bones in one big wet sheet. Sometimes it’s itchy. Other times it’s on fire.
Then it’s my eyes. Wide open. Can’t blink. Can’t close. The light is dim but every shadow is a threat. The corners breathe. The air moves like a living thing. I swear I see a man standing in the door, but when I focus, there’s nothing there.
My spine starts screaming next. I arch off the bed, teeth clenched, fists locked, and it still doesn’t stop. It’s worse than pain. It’s possession. Like something’s inside my bones, gnawing its way out.
I moan. I scream. I cry. I can’t help it.
Sometimes I feel arms. Strong ones, holding me still. Wrapping around me like steel cables trying to contain a storm.Wyatt.
His voice is a low murmur at my temple. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay, sweetie.”
But I’m not okay. Nothing is okay. My body’s a torture rack. My brain’s running in circles and I’m chasing it, barefoot and blindfolded.
I’m burning. Then freezing. I strip off the blanket, then claw it back. My teeth chatter so hard I think they’ll break. My stomach cramps. I gag. I heave.
He gets the bucket in time.
I throw up bile and spit and my own guts. Over and over until there’s nothing left. I cry through it, mouth open, jaw locked. But there’s no emotion in it.
“I want to die,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. He wipes my mouth. “But you’re not going to.”
He presses cool cloths to my forehead. Brings water. Holds it to my lips like I’m a child.
“You have to drink.”
When I do, it comes back up.
I curl up in the fetal position and sweat through the sheets. I hear a whisper. Ryder?
I bolt upright. “Where is he?” My voice is cracked glass. “Where is he?”
“Max, no one’s here. It’s just me.”
I scream.
Wyatt is sliding his hands underneath me, picking me up to take me to the shower. My hair’s plastered to my face. I think my lips are bleeding.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can.”
The hallway spins around us. I flinch at every sound—an engine revving outside, a door creaking, faraway laughter.
He takes me to the shared second-floor washroom and sets me down on the closed toilet lid and turns the shower on.
Then he crouches in front of me. “Can you stand?” he asks.
