I freeze, every muscle locking simultaneously. My brain struggles to process what I'm seeing, to reconcile the reality of a weapon pointed in my direction with the desperate hope that drove me here. Time slows, each second stretching into eternity as I watch his arm steady, and his finger moves toward the trigger.
Gunfire shatters the silence, the crack echoing through the clearing so violently it jolts through my chest. Bark splinters from a tree just feet away, scattering across the ground. I freeze, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and throat.
Another shot follows, closer this time. Instinct drives me backward, one hand lifting as if it could stop a bullet. Then motion explodes from the trees behind me.
Vega.
He barrels into me with crushing force, knocking me sideways just as a bullet tears through the air where I was standing. The impact steals my breath, driving me hard into the ground. Vega lands half across me, a wall of muscle and fury, his growl rolling through the earth beneath us.
The sound vibrates deep and low, primal enough to still the forest for one suspended heartbeat. Then he’s gone, springing forward with terrifying instinct, his focus locked on the man with the gun.
“Vega! No!” The words rip from my throat, desperate and futile.
He's already gone, his massive body launching off me and charging toward the gunman with a sound that rips straight from another world. It's not quite a bark or a snarl. It’ssomething in between that radiates violence, fury, and absolute commitment. His muscles ripple beneath his dark fur as he closes the distance in powerful bounds.
The man stumbles backward, surprise breaking through his professional composure for just a moment. He fires again, the recoil jerking his arm upward, but Vega is faster. His jaws lock around the man's forearm with audible force, teeth sinking through fabric and flesh. The gun falls, hitting the ground and discharging once more, the bullet going wild into the canopy above.
The scream that follows is raw and short-lived, cut off by Vega's relentless assault. The man kicks, twisting, shouting something in Russian that sounds like curses, prayers, or both. His free hand scrabbles for a knife at his belt, fingers clumsy with panic. But Vega doesn't stop.
They hit the dirt hard, bodies tangling in a violent embrace. The gunman's shirt tears, fabric and flesh giving way under powerful jaws. Vega lunges higher, going for the throat with the ferocity of a trained killer. His teeth flash again in the dappled sunlight, and suddenly there's blood, more blood than I've ever seen, spraying against the fallen leaves in arterial spurts that paint the forest floor crimson.
I push up on my hands, shaking violently, unable to look away. The violence is terrible and absolutely necessary. Vega stands over the man, chest heaving, the growl fading into a low rumble of warning. His muzzle is dark with blood, his eyes still locked on the threat even as the gunman's movements slow and then stop entirely.
My pulse is everywhere, behind my eyes, in my fingers, and pounding against the inside of my ribs like something trying toescape. My entire body trembles with adrenaline and shock, the muscles twitching with the aftereffects of near-death. I want to move and get to Hope, but my limbs won't cooperate.
Then another shot splits the clearing, the sound different this time, coming from a different angle.
Vega jerks mid-step, his powerful body convulsing. The sound he makes is unlike anything I've ever heard, a sharp, painful whimper that collapses into silence.
“No,” I choke out, the word barely more than a whisper. My throat closes around the sound, refusing to let it out properly.
He stumbles once, his legs folding unevenly, and then he hits the ground beside the fallen man with a heavy thud that seems to shake the earth.
I'm crawling toward him before conscious thought catches up. My knees drag through the mud, palms scraping against roots and stone hidden beneath the leaf litter. Everything blurs through tears I didn't realize had started falling. “No, no, no,” I repeat, the words a desperate litany against reality.
I reach him and my hands find his fur, trembling as I touch him. His coat is warm beneath my fingers, still carrying his body heat, still soft despite being matted with blood. The blood seeps between my fingers, hot and slick, staining my skin crimson.
“Vega, please,” I beg, pressing my hand over the wound at his side. The hole is small but devastating, blood pulsing out with each weakening heartbeat. I apply pressure, trying to remember first aid training from years ago to stop the bleeding through sheer force of will. “Stay with me.”
His breathing comes in shallow, rapid breaths, his chest rising and falling in a stuttering rhythm. His eyes, dark and intelligent and unwavering in their loyalty, find mine once. For a moment, I see recognition there. I see the dog who knocked into me at Bean & Bloom weeks ago and somehow became my guardian. Then the focus fades, the light dimming like the last glow of a dying ember.
The forest spins around us, trees blurring into streaks of brown and green. My vision tunnels, darkening at the edges while the center remains painfully sharp. Every detail burns into my memory, the way Vega's ear is folded wrong, the pattern of blood on fallen leaves, the smell of iron and pine mixing into a scent I'll never forget.
A distant rumble builds behind the trees, growing louder with each passing second. I look up in time to see an SUV burst through the brush, its tires tearing the ground apart. Branches snap beneath its advance, smaller trees bending and breaking under its momentum. The sound is deafening, mechanical violence invading the forest's organic quiet.
The vehicle bursts into the clearing, sunlight glinting off its windshield in a harsh flash. I throw up a hand to shield my eyes, trying to see through the glare. Two men sit in front, the driver gripping the wheel hard, the passenger leaning halfway out the window with a gun still raised. My breath catches. He must be the one who shot Vega.
The vehicle doesn’t stop. I scramble to my feet, my legs trembling so badly they nearly buckle. Grief and fury collide inside me, sharp enough to steal reason. All I can think about is Hope. The thought tears something open in my chest. I run.
Mud sucks at my shoes, branches claw at my jacket, but I push forward, blind to everything except the shape of that vehicle. My lungs burn, the air rasping against my throat. The SUV veers toward me, tires spinning loose dirt. I see the passenger shift, his gun angled down. My pulse spikes.
For a fraction of a second, it feels like the world pauses. The hum of the engine, the pounding in my chest, even the air suspended between one heartbeat and the next. Then the SUV lurches forward.
I try to dive aside, but it’s too fast. The mirror clips my hip, metal slamming into bone with brutal force. The impact rips me off my feet, and suddenly I’m airborne. There’s no pain at first, just weightlessness, spinning sky, spinning trees, spinning white.
The world crashes back with a hollow crack that shatters everything, the noise of bone meeting metal with nothing in between to soften the collision. My head hits something solid that refuses to yield. Light fractures across my vision, scattering into shards of white, red, and gold that make no sense. The world becomes kaleidoscope images, beautiful and wrong.
Somewhere in the distance, the SUV screeches to a stop, brakes screaming. Voices yell, muffled and warped as if traveling through water. My body refuses to move, nerves firing random signals that my muscles can't or won't interpret. The taste of blood floods my mouth, but the pain hasn't arrived yet. Shock provides a temporary buffer against reality.
