Instead, I watched her, and waited.
She was alive. That would have to be enough for now.
It took us an hour to make it to the old municipal airstrip. The fence was a joke; the camera feed looped on a thirty-second delay, thanks to Parker. I watched our plane through the windshield: a Gulfstream, white as bone, engines idling, lights on but cabin dark. It looked out of place on a strip built for crop dusters and medevac.
We pulled up fast, killed the engine. Wrecker and Big Papa took point, first out, guns ready and eyes scanning the perimeter. Nothing moved out here but tumbleweed and oil-sheen puddles. Parker slid the van door open and helped Harper to her feet. She was shaking, but tried to cover it with a fistful of her skirt. I hovered, a hand at her back, but didn’t touch unless she needed it. She hated being touched when she was scared.
We walked the tarmac single file, Oscar scurrying rode on Aspen’s shoulder who followed with a clutch of blankets and a medical kit. The wind was cool even though it was early spring; it went through her dress and left Harper’s skin stippled with goosebumps. She moved like her body didn’t belong to her. I kept pace at her side, fighting the urge to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way. Soldier overruled wolf, for now.
Inside the jet, the lighting was soft and gold. I guided Harper down the aisle, careful to keep my movements slow, predictable. She flinched when my hand grazed her elbow, then shot me a look—guilty, ashamed, all nerves. I let go.
She slid into the plush seat I pointed to. I strapped her in, the belt loose enough not to pinch. She let me. Her hands trembled as she clutched them in her lap. The dark under her nails made me want to smash things.
I handed her a bottle of water. She clutched it with both hands, staring at the condensation. Wrecker took the seat behind us, feet up and eyes shut, already detached. Parker and Aspen sat opposite, both angled toward Harper, giving her space but not ignoring her.
“We’ll be in the air soon,” I said, voice low. “It’s a three-hour flight. Nothing to do but rest.”
She nodded, still not looking up.
Parker started talking, voice soft, like a lullaby. “Hey, Harper. You got this. We’re all gonna help you get through it.”
Harper gave a small nod.
Aspen reached over and covered her with a blanket and then patted her arm, feather-light. “We’re Iron Valor. You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, okay?”
Harper tried to answer, but her throat closed. She nodded again, too fast, and blinked hard at the carpet. Her hands picked at the seatbelt.
I watched her. My wolf wanted to drag her into my lap and keep her there until she was warm and whole again, but the human part of me remembered everything—the way she’d left, the years of silence, the misery of missing her. I held back, knuckles white on the armrest.
The engines spooled up, and the cabin vibrated. The pilot’s voice came on: “Wheels up in five.” Big Papa came down the aisle, handed me a granola bar, then sat facing the aisle, feet planted, arms folded. Guardian angel mode.
As we taxied, Harper grew smaller, eyes sinking. The motion of the jet made her eyelids droop. She fought it, tried to sit up straight, but the water bottle drooped in her hands and nearly spilled. Parker rescued.
Aspen whispered, “Try to rest, honey. It’ll help.”
Harper nodded, blinking slowly now. Her head lolled back against the seat, lips parting. She was asleep before we left the ground.
I watched her, memorizing every change in her face. The dark circles were worse in this light. The bones in her cheeks stood out sharp. Her lips were pale, almost cracked. Every few seconds, her hands jerked with some dream or memory. I wanted to reach for her, but didn’t.
We hit cruising, and the cabin settled into a hush. Parker and Aspen whispered at the far end, voices low and private. Wrecker snored, feet up, arms crossed.
I watched Harper and waited for the anger to burn off.
It didn’t.
I raised the armrest between us. Her head slumped sideways. I caught it, guided it gently to my lap, and then let her sleep there. I brushed a hand over her hair, slow and careful, until the shaking stopped.
I sat that way for two hours, the hum of the engines a lullaby.
At sunrise, the plane banked left. I looked out the window.
Below us, the land was flat and gold. Dairyville, ten miles to the east, dusted in morning light. At the edge of the tarmac, I spotted a truck: Bronc’s fancy Ford idling. Waiting for us to arrive.
I woke Harper with a hand on her shoulder, soft as I could manage. She jerked awake, then went still when she saw it was me.
“We’re home,” I said.
She looked out the window, then at me. There was nothing in her eyes—not fear, not hope. Just exhaustion. But she nodded once, and let me unbuckle her.
