It took a while, but eventually, figures emerged. Hunter came first, his scarred hands steady on the weapon he carried. Then Beckett, jaw tight.
Between them, Oliver.
His hands were cuffed behind his back. His clothes were torn, dirt smeared across his face, and something had gone wrong with his mouth—split lip, maybe, or a tooth knocked loose. The polished control was gone. What was left looked brittle. Exposed.
Bishop sat on the ground beside Oliver’s SUV, similarly restrained.
Federal vehicles were pulling up the access road, red and blue lights strobing against the trees. Doors opening. Agents pouring out. More than I could count.
Coop wrapped his jacket around my shoulders—I was shaking, though I couldn’t tell if it was cold or shock or both. He positioned himself beside me, solid and present and alive.
I watched them lead Oliver toward the vehicles. Watched his pale eyes scan the scene—calculating, even now, looking for angles that didn’t exist anymore.
His gaze found me.
I held it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. I would never be his prey again.
He was the one who broke first, head turning as they pushed him toward a vehicle. The door opened. They guided him into the back seat.
The door slammed shut.
Coop’s arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling my back into his chest. I could feel his heart beating, steady and strong. Could feel his breath warm against my hair.
“It’s over,” he said.
I leaned into him. Let myself feel the open sky above me, the solid ground beneath my feet, the warmth of him surrounding me.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
Epilogue
Coop
Six months.
Six months since the mine tunnels. Since Oliver’s hunt. Since I’d carried Mia out of that darkness and promised myself I’d never let her go again.
I leaned against the split-rail fence at Pawsitive Connections, afternoon light warming everything it touched. The kind of light photographers dreamed about—soft and rich, making even the dusty paddocks look like something out of a magazine.
Mia stood in the middle of it like she’d been born there.
She had her camera up, circling the therapy animals Lark had arranged for the sanctuary’s new marketing materials. The goats were cooperating. The horses were cooperating. Even Fernando the llama was maintaining his regal composure long enough for decent shots.
Al Pacacino was absolutely not cooperating.
The cream-and-brown alpaca had planted himself at an angle that ruined every composition Mia tried to set up. Whenshe moved left, he moved left. When she crouched for a low shot, he swung his head directly into frame and stared at the lens like a disappointed aristocrat.
“Al. Al, I need you to turn. Just a little. To your right.” Mia gestured with one hand while keeping the camera steady with the other. “Come on. Work with me here.”
Al Pacacino flicked his ears and did not turn.
“I will give you treats. So many treats. An entire bucket of treats.”
The alpaca’s dark eyes conveyed his complete indifference to bribery.
I bit back a laugh. She was bossing him around with the same commanding tone he used to boss everyone else, and neither of them was winning. The standoff would have been hilarious even if I weren’t already half drunk at the sight of her.
This was the Mia I remembered from before everything went to hell—the one who’d crawled onto a rusted fire escape four stories up just to catch a sunrise, who’d dragged me to the top of a parking garage at three a.m. because the city lights looked like fallen stars.
