Thomas turns, the overhead lights bouncing shadows across his face as he tilts the barrel of the gun directly toward Sage's chest. Water streams along his arm, sliding down the barrel in glistening lines. The expression on his face is so cold and disturbingly resolute that it ignites a volcanic fury in my chest. His finger tightens on the trigger. Everything in his body language tells me he has already decided to kill her.
I lift my gun with unwavering precision and fire. The shot cracks through the warehouse, slicing through the falling water and the haze of smoke, striking Thomas squarely in the upper shoulder. The impact jolts his body backward and tears the gun from his fingers. The weapon clatters across the floor, skidding through puddles before disappearing beneath a pallet.
Thomas's eyes widen in shock, then twist into raw malice as he stumbles. His arms windmill, trying to regain balance on the slick concrete. He slams sideways into the stacked crates beside him, his full mass hitting the wooden frames with a deep, splintering thud. The structure groans under the sudden pressure. The entire column wavers.
“Sage!” I shout, my voice tearing from my throat.
Her head snaps toward me, anguish and relief colliding in her eyes. For a split second, our gazes lock. I see everything in that moment, the fear and exhaustion and the unbreakable instinct to protect Hope. I see the woman who has become everything to me, and I know with absolute certainty that there is no force on this earth I won’t destroy to keep her safe.
The crates tilt. Thomas grabs at the air, the stack, and anything he can find to hold himself up, but it is too late. One crate dislodges. Then another. And in a single devastating collapse, the entire upper tier crashes down. Wood splinters. Metal screeches. The sound of impact echoes through the warehouse like thunder.
The crates slam onto Thomas with brutal finality, burying him beneath their crushing mass. A choked, guttural noise escapes him, then dissolves into silence. The wood settles, rocking slightly before becoming still. Dust rises from the wreckage, mingling with the spray from the sprinklers.
I do not celebrate. There is no satisfaction in killing a man who abandoned his daughters long before this moment. There is only the driving need to reach Sage and Hope before the chaos around us swallows them whole. My legs propel me forward before my mind fully processes what just happened. Thedistance between us feels infinite even though it's only a few dozen feet.
I sprint the last stretch and drop to my knees beside Sage, heedless of the water soaking through my pants. She clutches Hope with trembling arms, shielding her even after surviving the nightmare no one should ever have to endure. Her entire body shakes, and her teeth chatter. But her grip on Hope never loosens.
“Sage,” I breathe, brushing my hand over her arm, guiding her backward so she can look at me. “I have you. I am here.”
Her eyes meet mine, wide and filled with fear that cuts me open. Those blue eyes I have memorized in every light and mood now swim with unshed tears. Her lips part, but no words come out. She is going into shock. I can see it in the glassy quality of her stare, and the way her pupils have dilated too far.
“She’s not okay,” she finally whispers, her voice breaking as she gathers Hope closer. “Luka, she's not breathing right. She… she needs her meds. She's close to having an episode. I can tell.”
Hope's head lolls against Sage's shoulder. Her eyelids flutter. Her chest rises and falls in irregular patterns that immediately trigger alarm bells in my mind. I have seen enough medical emergencies to recognize the signs. We are running out of time.
“I know,” I murmur, already signaling behind me with two fingers and a sharp gesture. “Misha! Medical kit. Now.”
Misha barrels toward us, soaked, stubble dripping water, his expression carved from stone. He drops to the ground beside Hope and flips open the medical bag. His fingers move fast, calculating dosage, checking vitals, and assessing her rapidlydeclining condition. He presses two fingers to Hope's wrist, then her throat, counting seconds under his breath.
“Her pulse is erratic,” he mutters over the noise. Water drips from his hair onto the medical supplies. “We need to stabilize her. She's seconds from a full episode.”
Sage presses her cheek to Hope's hair, whispering soft, frantic reassurances that break me in ways violence never could. She strokes Hope's back with trembling movements, trying to keep her tethered here, to this moment. Her voice cracks on every word.
“You're okay, Hope. You're okay. I'm here. I've got you.”
Misha draws a syringe and administers the injection confidently. The medication enters Hope's bloodstream. Her body trembles, the muscles seizing for a terrifying moment, then slowly relaxes by degrees. Her breaths remain uneven but less erratic, the immediate danger easing but not entirely gone.
“She will need monitoring and additional support,” Misha declares, already repacking the kit. “But she is stable enough for transport.”
Relief washes through Sage so quickly her entire body sags. The tension that has been holding her upright vanishes, and I move instantly to catch her. I slide my arm beneath her elbow and lift her gently. She stands on unsteady legs, clinging to Hope with white-knuckled desperation. I secure my hand at her waist and hold her upright, taking most of her body mass.
“Luka,” she murmurs, fear woven into every syllable. “Don't… don't let go. Please.”
“I’m not letting go of either of you,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw while Misha steps forward and lifts Hope gently from her grasp. I draw Sage against my side, supporting her as her sister settles into his hold. “You have my word.”
Behind us, gunfire starts again as my men push farther into the warehouse, clearing out pockets of resistance. The alarms go silent, and the falling water slows to a drip, a signal that the tide has turned and the worst of the fight is behind us. The sound of boots on concrete, shouted commands in Russian, and the occasional crack of a weapon filter through the spray of water. Vega charges past, barking with focused purpose, sweeping through shadows with fangs bared and protective instinct driving every movement. His presence centers Sage instantly. She reaches down and touches his back as if finding her balance in the solid strength he offers.
“Good boy,” she whispers to him, her voice hoarse.
Nikolay appears moments later, drenched and panting, his green eyes bright with adrenaline. Blood spatters his cheek, but it is not his. “Thomas is finished. The crates crushed him. We checked for a pulse, but there was nothing.”
“Good,” I reply, the word carrying no triumph, only finality. “Call the clean-up crew. Full sweep. I want this place sanitized within the hour.”
He nods and moves, already barking orders into his radio. His voice fades as he jogs back toward the main entrance, where more of our men are streaming in.
I guide Sage toward the exit, supporting her while she keeps one hand on Hope's arm. Her body shakes with exhaustion, adrenaline, and the trauma still coursing through her system.Each step she takes is careful as if she's afraid the ground might give way beneath her. I tighten my grip on her waist.
“Sage,” I murmur, lowering my head until my breath skims her ear. “Look at me.”
