“Marshall,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure he was real.
He stepped to her immediately, his hands framing her arms, checking for bruises or injuries, for anything wrong. His body angled between hers and the unconscious men without him thinking about it—shielding and covering her, every instinct blazing.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, urgent, trying not to touch panic.
She shook her head, but her chin trembled. “It’s too late,” she whispered. “They know. Sidarov told them to get rid of me.”
Marshall’s grip tightened. “Not happening,” he said. “You’re leaving with me.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “Marshall—if you fight them, if you get caught?—”
“We leave together,” he repeated, softer but fiercer. “I’m not losing you again.”
Her breath hitched. That brief flicker of relief in her eyes nearly undid him.
Then a voice slid through the corridor like oil on marble.
“Well,” Hale said, “this is disappointing.”
Marshall pulled Norah behind him as he turned.
Richard Hale stepped into the intersection of the hallways, silver hair immaculate, cuffs crisp, expression composed. But his eyes...his eyes were a battlefield of fury, fear, and wounded pride. He glanced once at his unconscious men, then back at Marshall, and the mask cracked a fraction.
“You really couldn’t stay gone, could you?” Hale said softly. “Norah gives you one directive, and you still can’t manage obedience.”
Marshall shifted his stance, keeping Norah shielded. “You handed her over,” he said. “You were going to let them kill her. Weren’t you, Dick?” He let the mocking nickname drip with derision. “All those years pretending to mentor her, and the first time she’s in real danger, you offer her up like a bargaining chip. Some protector you are.”
Hale’s jaw tightened. “I was trying to fix this. All of it. But you—” he pointed at Marshall with a trembling hand “—you keep inserting yourself where you do not belong.”
He moved toward them, and Marshall saw the trembling wasn’t fear.
It was rage. And desperation.
“You think she understands what’s at stake?” Hale demanded. “She has no idea what she’s done tonight. No idea what she walked into. I could have protected her. I still can.”
Norah made a small sound—a quiet, horrified exhale—and Hale’s gaze snapped to her. His expression softened at once, melting into something almost paternal.
“Norah,” he said gently, “you and I can still fix this. We can manage it, the way we always have. I can get you through this night alive, but you have to stop...all of this.” He gestured vaguely at her disheveled hair, her trembling stance, the knocked-out guards. “You’re panicking. You’re saying things you don’t mean. Come back to me. We can be a team again.”
Her fingers dug into Marshall’s jacket.
Hale saw it.
And something venomous curled through his expression. “You choose him,” he said quietly, “and I can’t protect you anymore.”
Marshall felt Norah shake behind him. “You were never protecting me,” she whispered.
Hale’s face hardened. The last shred of pretense fell away. “So be it.”
He bent swiftly, grabbing the gun from the unconscious guard on the floor.
Marshall moved before Hale’s fingers brushed the weapon. He shoved Norah back against the wall, covering her with his body as Hale raised the gun with hands that shook, not with fear, but with raw, offended pride.
“You don’t deserve to keep her,” Hale hissed. “Everything she has, everything she is, is because of me.”
Marshall didn’t bother with a warning.
He lunged.
