With little else to do, Nix towed one of the couches in front of the damaged door—at least that’d slow the Elites down. The very motion exacerbated her wound, which gushed with fresh blood. She bit her tongue before she could scream, or cry, or something. She needed to bind that injury, and fast. If Nix had been smart, she wouldn’t have removed his knife at all. She lectured that to her ensigns. The sixty-first would be laughing if they saw this.
