“Copy that. Still no contact since the mountain incident.”
“Command wants confirmation. If there were survivors, they’d be running on fumes by now.”
My blood turns to ice. Survivors. They’re looking for survivors.
One operative breaks from the pattern, angling uphill. Straight toward us.
My pulse roars in my ears. The agent moves with unhurried certainty, his scanner raised like a weapon. Twenty meters. Fifteen.
A gasp escapes me—sharp, involuntary.
Luke’s hand clamps over my mouth.
The contact shocks through me, his palm warm and rough against my lips, his other arm wrapping around my shoulders to pull me back against his chest. Not gently. Not asking permission. Pure survival instinct overriding everything else.
I should hate this. Should resent being silenced, controlled.
But his heartbeat thuds against my spine—steady, controlled—and something in mesteadieswith it. His body shields mine, solid and unmovable, and for the first time since my fire went silent, I don’t feel like I’m floating away into nothing.
I focus on that rhythm, letting it drown out the screaming in my head that saysrun, move, fight. But fighting won’t work. Not without fire. Not against six armed agents with tech designed to hunt what I am.
So I stay frozen in Luke’s arms, breathing through my nose in shallow sips as the agent stops three meters away.
He turns his head, scanning the forest. The pale light from his device washes over the trunk we’re hiding behind, painting the rotted wood in sterile white.
One second. Two. Three.
Static crackles from his earpiece. “Sector seven clear. Moving to eight.”
“Any thermal hits?”
“Negative. Nothing more than deer.”
He pivots and stalks back downhill.
I don’t move. Neither does Luke. We stay locked together, his chest rising and falling against my back, his breath warm against my hair. The operatives’ voices fade into the distance, but still we don’t separate.
My awareness narrows to points of contact: his arm across my ribs. His palm still resting over my mouth, even though I’m not making a sound. The solid heat of him pressed along every inch of my spine.
Heat that has nothing to do with fire and everything to do with the way his thumb has started tracing absent circles against my jaw.
Does he even realize he’s doing it?
My breath hitches. His hand stills.
Then he pulls back abruptly, releasing me and putting space between us in one swift movement. His expression is guarded in the dim light, but tension radiates off him.
“We need to move,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”
We navigate the slope in tense silence, Luke staying a few steps ahead. My shoulder still burns where it pressed against his chest. My mouth still tingles from the ghost pressure of his palm.
I shake it off. Focus on the terrain. On staying alive.
The voices below have faded, but they’re still out there. Hunting. Looking for survivors who should be dead by now.
The terrain steepens as we climb. My thighs burn with the effort of hauling myself over rocks and exposed roots. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back despite the cold. Luke moves ahead of me with the confidence of someone who’s walked terrain like this before.
“You know where we’re going,” I say. Not a question.
