The forest tilts and folds around me. Trees lean at impossible angles, the sky visible through gaps in the canopy, swirling like water going down a drain. My sense of up and down dissolves, leaving only confusion and creeping cold. The boundaries between things become indistinct, trees melting into earth, earthdissolving into sky. Everything is fading, losing coherence and substance.
“Hope,” I whisper again, the word dying on my lips, too quiet to carry beyond my own ears. I try to hold on, to stay present, and keep fighting. But the darkness is stronger than my will. It rises like a tide, inevitable and absolute.
The world folds in on itself, and then, nothing.
22
LUKA
The corridor hums with quiet order, the mechanical rhythm of machines breathing behind closed doors, a reminder of how fragile life can be. A nurse wheels a cart past me, her shoes whispering against the linoleum in a soft shuffle. I pace the length of the hallway outside Sage's room, my reflection ghosting in the darkened window across from the door.
We moved her out of Denver two hours ago. The rehabilitation hospital wasn't built for trauma, and I wasn't about to leave her where Ray's men knew every hallway, entrance, and blind spot in the security cameras. I had her airlifted to Aspen Ridge Medical Center, a private facility built into the slope above the valley, quiet and isolated, the type of place where the staff know better than to ask questions when men like mine arrive with weapons under their jackets and fury in their eyes.
Every step drags me through the same loop of memory, an endless cycle I can't break free from: Sage's body limp in Albert's arms, her head lolling against his shoulder like a broken doll, her hair matted with dirt and blood, her skin too pale against the dark fabric of his jacket. The red streaks across her templewhen they lifted her onto the gurney, the way her arm fell to the side and just hung there, lifeless. The silence when I realized she wasn't breathing, those terrible seconds before the paramedics forced air into her lungs, and her chest finally rose with borrowed life.
I stop walking and press my palm flat against the window, feeling the cold glass bite into my skin. The parking lot below sits empty except for three black SUVs arranged in a defensive formation around the entrance. My men move between them in slow circuits, their shadows long under the lights that buzz with electricity.
Misha stands farther down the corridor, talking to a security tech who's hunched over a tablet. He's calm the way only soldiers learn to be after years of warfare. His eyes dart toward me once before returning to the man's screen, his finger tapping against something I can't see from this distance.
Near the vending machines, Albert sits slouched in a hard chair that looks too small for his frame, a bandage wrapped around his forearm, and a shallow cut taped across his jaw. He looks like he hasn't blinked in hours, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance that only he can see. When I stop beside him, he straightens immediately, rubbing a hand over his face in a gesture that's equal parts exhaustion and readiness.
“She ran,” he begins, his voice rough from exhaustion and the cold air he breathed during the pursuit. “I saw it on the tablet feed. South exit camera at the rehab center. She went through the gate before I could reach her. By the time I got outside, she was already halfway down the slope.” He pauses, jaw working as he pieces together the sequence of events in his mind. “I followed her trail down through the trees. When I found her, the SUV had already hit.”
My stomach knots, the muscles clenching so hard I have to force myself to breathe through the sensation. “You got a look at the plates?”
“Nothing. Too much glare from the windshield, and they were moving too fast.” He hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands. “Vega found her first. Must've followed her out through the fence gap near the east side. When I reached them, he was down, bleeding badly from his hip. Looked like he took it trying to protect her from whoever was in that vehicle.”
The words land like a blow to my chest. “Who fired?”
“Couldn’t tell. I heard engines, multiple vehicles moving through the trees.” His gaze flicks away, something darker passing across his face. “There was a body, though. Male, late twenties. Or what was left of him. Vega must have gotten to him before he went down. His throat was ripped wide, the fabric of his jacket in tatters and his arm mangled with bite marks that went straight to the bone. I think the bastard tried to finish Sage off, and Vega tore him apart.”
I draw a slow breath, trying to steady the heat burning through my chest and threatening to explode into something I won't be able to control. “And now?”
“They took Vega to Highline Emergency Veterinary down the road,” Albert replies, his voice softening fractionally. “The bullet went through the hip, missed the artery by what the vet described as pure luck. He lost a lot of blood, but they got him stabilized during surgery. The vet remarked it was close, really close. They will keep him overnight for observation, make sure there is no internal bleeding they missed.”
I nod once, relief tempered by fury that burns hotter with each passing second. The fact that Vega survived is a small mercy in a situation defined by loss, but it does not erase what happened. “He stayed with her even when he was shot.”
Albert's mouth tightens into a grim line. “He has more loyalty than most people.”
The image fixes itself in my mind with cruel clarity, Vega bleeding and broken, still defending the woman he claimed as his own. “When he is released, bring him to the cabin. He will recover where I can keep eyes on him.”
“Yes,pakhan,” Albert responds.
When Misha approaches, the phone glows in his hand, pale light sliding over his knuckles from whatever report held his attention a moment ago. “Ray and the Sokolovs are ghosts,” he reports without preamble. “They vanished from the feeds after the initial pursuit. No vehicles at any checkpoint we monitor, no chatter on the encrypted channels we have been listening to for months. It's too clean, which tells me they had multiple escape routes planned in advance.”
“They took Hope,” I mutter, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.
“Yes.”
“Block every exit north,” I order, my tone low but sharp enough to cut through stone. “Pull every favor we have. Truckers, private airstrips, warehouse runners. Anyone who has ever taken our money or protection now works for me until she is found.”
Misha’s expression does not change, but the muscle in his jaw flexes once before he answers. “Already in motion,” he replies,his voice low but certain. “I have our people running every feed from Denver to Cheyenne. The truckers will flag anything out of place, and the pilots who owe us won’t lift without checking in first. If she is on the move, we will find her trail.”
He regards me for a long moment, arms folded and gaze intent, the pause loaded with words he almost keeps to himself. “You blame yourself.”
“I should. She ran because of me. Because I could not protect Hope the way I promised. Every choice I have made since bringing Sage into my world has led to this.”
“That is not truth. That is guilt,” he counters, his voice even but laced with warning. “And guilt does not build strategy. It makes you reckless, and makes you take risks you would never ask of your men. You cannot lead with that pressing on your spine.”
