Page 39 of Taming Chaos

It had been a fatal mistake.

There was no way Torin could let such a thing happen on his watch, so he’d put the strongest thing he could think of—his body—in its way.

Predictably, the damn thing had exploded right in his face.

That had fucking hurt.

Then the Bartharrans had shot him with plasma fire.

That had fucking hurt too.

The plasma blast had penetrated his armor right at the point where the explosion weakened it, ripping through Torin’s side. Ignoring the injury, he’d surged to his feet with half his guts hanging out, retrieved his swords, and cut down his attackers.

And when he was done, when he’d spent every last drop of his anger, he’d fallen to his knees, his chest heaving, his breaths coming in great, shuddering gasps, black nanite-infused blood spilling from his side.

And now the Bartharrans were all dead.

“Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?” His words fell on dead ears, echoing off the cold metal walls.

If they’d just heeded his warning, if they’d just done as he’d asked and gotten out of the fucking way, then all this could have been avoided.

Come on, come on… He willed his body to regenerate, feeling exposed in the wide corridor. As his injury healed, he slid one of his blades back into its sheath and armed himself with a plasma gun.

The nanites went to work. Soft curses dropped from his lips as a familiar searing pain ripped through his body, momentarily paralyzing him. It felt like a huge barbed hook was being pulled through his side, over and over again.

But hey, at least his guts weren’t hanging out anymore. Get ahold of yourself! Torin took a deep breath and pulled the cold veil across his mind. All the First Division warriors knew this technique, but he didn’t know what the others called it.

To Torin, it was the cold veil, because the world looked different when he detached himself from his pain. It was as if he were viewing everything through a prism, with his pain on one side, and his intent on the other.

It always came down to a choice. Weakness versus cold, callous strength.

He chose intent. He chose strength.

Slowly, he looked from side to side, scanning the corridor for potential threats.

Movement caught his eye. His gun-arm snapped in the direction of the disturbance, his finger balancing lightly on the trigger.

Control.

A lesser warrior would have fired without thinking, but Torin had long ago learned that the most regrettable mistakes were often made in the heat of battle.

He froze, as he caught sight of Seph, suddenly terrified at what he might have done if his reflexes were just a fraction less precise.

It’s you.

Head, shoulders, body. She appeared from below, bringing life with her. In the grim, colorless passageway, where the smell of death hung in the air, she was the antidote to Torin’s pain.

Brown eyes widened. Moist lips parted, offering him a glimpse of her delicate tongue. Having slipped free of their fastening, stray curls danced around her face.

Torin noted with some satisfaction that she was holding her gun, and her gun was pointed at him.

Good. Quick to learn, quick to understand, quick to adapt. He’d noticed that trait in her right from the very start.

Slowly, he put away his weapons.

“Torin!” She saw him on his knees, saw the gaping wound in his side, saw the flesh coming together in the most unnatural of ways. “You’re hurt!”

She must have noticed the bodies all around them. At least a dozen Bartharrans had fallen by his blade, and abstract sprays of crimson blood painted the floor and the walls, but if the carnage bothered her, she didn’t show it. Last time, she’d been afraid. This time, she rushed to his side, pulling out her cloak, which was bundled at her waist. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees and pressed it against his side, applying a decent amount of pressure. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

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