Elara
The ravine twisted tighter the farther we moved, stone walls narrowing until the moon vanished overhead. Every step carried us deeper into the shadow, away from the growl of engines and the sweep of Hydra’s lights.
Finally, Beckett halted, one hand lifting in silent command. His profile was a dark cut against the rock as he angled his head toward a split in the wall. A hollow.
A cave.
He ducked inside first, weapon raised, his movements precise despite the exhaustion dragging at both of us. A heartbeat later, he gave the signal, and I followed.
The air inside was cooler; the rock was damp from old rain. It wasn’t much—just stone and shadow—but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the desert above.
Beckett crouched, setting his rifle within arm’s reach before scanning the cave’s mouth again. Only when he was certain we weren’t followed did he exhale, a long, quiet sound that scraped something loose in my chest.
“Sit,” he said gruffly.
I sank against the wall, my legs trembling with relief I refused to show. He approached me, field kit already in hand, pulling out gauze and antiseptic. His knuckles brushed my temple as he cleaned the cut there again, this time more firmly, as if he pressed hard enough he could erase Hydra’s fingerprints from my skin.
“You should sleep,” he muttered.
I huffed a laugh that held no humor. “With Hydra circling above?”
His eyes flicked up, pinning mine. “I’ll keep watch.”
I should’ve told him not to bother. That I didn’t need guarding. But the words died in my throat, because the truth pressed too heavy against my ribs: Ididneed him.
His hand lingered a moment too long at my jaw. His thumb brushed the edge of my mouth, the faintest ghost of our kiss still between us. My pulse stuttered, wild and traitorous.
“Beckett…” My voice cracked, breaking on his name.
His expression shifted, the soldier’s mask slipping just enough to show the man beneath. Tired. Determined. Wanting.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he said, low and certain, like it wasn’t a promise but a vow carved into stone.
The cave was dark, the world outside relentless, but in that moment—with his hand at my face and the echo of his words in my chest—I felt safer than I had in years.
And that terrified me more than Hydra ever could.
36
Beckett
The cave had gone quiet. Too quiet. Elara sat across from me, her knees drawn up, knife balanced across them like a second spine. Even at rest, she was coiled, dangerous.
I should’ve kept my eyes on the entrance, but instead they kept finding her in the flicker of moonlight spilling through the narrow crack above us. Her braid was half unraveled, her face smeared with dust and blood. She looked nothing like the diamond-edged woman Hydra had paraded through their circles.
She looked real.
And that was somehow harder to face.
“You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, voice cutting through the silence.
I shifted, checking the rifle beside me. “Not when I’m on watch.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her eyes narrowed, sharp even in the dark. “You carry it like I do. The things you’ve seen. The things you’ve done.”
My jaw tightened. “We all carry it.”
Her laugh was quiet and bitter. “No. Some of you bury it. Pretend it doesn’t rot under the surface. You… you wear it like armor.”
