He didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
Dave’s breath rasped against his collar, shallow but steady. Enough.
Stone carried Dave out of the alcove, strides fueled by rage and fear. Clinton shouted behind them—excuses, lies—but Rip and Winter hauled him away.
Rip growled at Clinton, Boston muttered sharp threats, and Winter stayed silent. None of it mattered.
Stone pressed closer, his grip unshakable. His voice dropped low, steady, just for Dave. “I’ve got you.”
Dave’s hand twitched weakly against his coat. His lips parted, breath rough. But Dave’s eyes found his.
Something raw sparked there. Not command, not defense. Something else.
The surf crashed against the shore as he carried Dave toward the estate.
Stone didn’t look back.
His world was in his arms, and he wasn’t letting go.
Dave’s weight bore down heavily, his arm slack against his shoulder. Carrying Dave up the beach, lungs burning, not from exertion, but fueled by instinct and fear.
Behind him, Clinton struggled against Rip and Winter’s hold, his voice split the night. “No, stop—he needs me!”
“Shut him up,” Stone barked as he hit the pathway that would lead to the side gate.
Rip jerked Clinton by the collar, dragging him through the sand. Winter locked his other arm, silent and cold-eyed.
Boston stalked beside them, steps sure, his tone cutting. “Want me to take over, Rip?” He didn’t sound hurried—he sounded almost cynical. “I’ll make it so he stops breathing and you won’t have to explain anything to POTUS.”
Eighteen, wiry and restless, Boston had the sharp energy of a street-born survivor. Dark chocolate eyes missed nothing, as quick as his tongue. Black curls framed a lean, sly face; a wildcat grace in the way he moved—skittish, nimble, always fidgeting with his hands. Slow to smile, but when it came, the grin was wicked and worth the wait. Opinionated, crafty, uncannily smart—the kind of sharp edge you underestimated at your own risk.
Rip growled. “Zip it, kid, or I’ll feed you to the surf.”
Boston smirked, sharp as a blade. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, old man. I was raised to slit throats in my sleep.But sure—ignore the fact that he almost killed our commander. Seems like a plan.”
Rip’s jaw worked, caught between throttling the brat and laughing at his nerve.
“One of these days, kid, your mouth’s gonna write a check even your quick feet can’t cash.”
Rip glanced at Dave, pale and slack in Stone’s arms, and his scowl deepened. “But not tonight. Tonight, you shut up and walk.”
Boston only snorted, like Rip’s warning was just foreplay.
Damn kid was going to be the death of him.
Stone blocked it all out. Focus narrowed to the gravel path under his boots and the limp weight of Dave against him. The man who never faltered was slipping fast.
Concrete replaced gravel. The headlights of Dave’s town car carved through the dark, engine already idling. Law stood nearby, the rear door open like a lifeline.
Stone lowered Dave inside, one hand steady on his chest, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall.
“Hospital,” Stone ordered, sliding inside next to Dave. His voice left no room for argument. Law snapped the car door shut.
The driver punched the accelerator. Tires spat gravel, the car fishtailing before it tore down the drive.
The ER was a wash of fluorescent glare. Machines beeped steady warnings, nurses swarmed, and the sharp tang of antiseptic filled Stone’s lungs.
Fuck.
