He’s sobbing, teeth gritted, eyes wide. “I can’t—I can’t feel my leg?—”
“I’ve got you.”
I don’t even hear my own voice, just the way it shakes. It’s instinct now. The blood doesn’t register. Not yet. The screams don’t hit.
Right now, he’s mine. My responsibility and I’m not losing another one.
We drag him back to the MRAP under cover fire.
Leo’s got the fifty up top, spraying lead into shadows.
Reese is limping.
I don’t even know where I’m hit.
The med tent blurs into view, and I don’t remember how we get there, just the weight of Mason’s blood on my chest and the stench of burning flesh in my nostrils.
I slam through the flap, barking at whoever’s nearest.
“He needs compression now! He’s fading fast—MOVE!”
And that’s when I hear her voice.
Her.
“Dax?”
I freeze.
No.
No, no, no.
She’s not supposed to be here.
Not here.
Not in this fucking blood-soaked room, not with his blood on me, not with my world crashing and hers walking into it like some cruel twist of fate.
My hands are still on Mason but my eyes are locked on her.
Cassandra.
Hair tied back. Scrubs soaked. Face pale.
Cassandra fucking Monroe.
I blink once.
Twice but the blood doesn’t leave her face, and the ghost doesn’t vanish, and the room doesn’t stop spinning long enough for me to believe she’s real.
Not here.
Not now.
Not when I’m holding Mason’s blood in my fucking palms and screaming at the corpsman to hold pressure while his leg drowns the table.
Cassandra.
