"Let me go," I roar, trying to wrench free. "I have to?—"
"You have to take her and get the fuck out of here," he cuts me off, his one good eye blazing with an intensity that matches my own. "I'll find Raven."
The words don't compute. Can't compute. Because accepting them means accepting that I'm supposed to just walk away while Raven might be?—
"How the fuck do you know he's alive?" The question comes out broken, desperate. Nothing like the controlled facade I've spent decades perfecting.
Nikolai's jaw works, that telltale sign that he's fighting his own demons. "I just fucking do," he snarls, and there's something in his voice, some certainty that cuts through my panic like a rusty blade.
We stand there, locked in a standoff. Two alphas who've spent years trying to kill each other, suddenly united by the two people who've managed to crack through our respective armor. The irony isn't lost on me, but I don't have time to tell it to fuck off.
My eye flicks to Cosima, still unconscious in his arms. Then back to the burning partially derailed train in the distance. Every instinct screams at me to go after Raven, to tear through that twisted metal until I find him. But Nikolai's right, damn him. Someone needs to get her to safety, and with my fucked knee, I'm not going to be much use in a search and rescue. It's what Raven would want.
And it's what Cosima needs.
"Bring. Him. Back," I growl, the words feeling like glass in my throat.
Something shifts in Nikolai's expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of what this concession costs me. "Keep her safe," he counters, already transferring Cosima's limp form into my arms.
She settles against my chest, warm and soft and real in a way that soothes my frayed nerves just enough that I can think straight even as my world tilts off its axis. I adjust my grip, careful to support her head, and force myself to turn away from the burning train.
Away from Raven.
Years. Fucking years of keeping everyone at arm's length, of making sure I never gave a shit about anyone enough for it to matter. All that careful control, all those walls I built brick by bloody brick, and for what?
I throw Cosima over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, the position more practical for the terrain we need to cover. Her lush curves press against me in ways that would be distracting under different circumstances, but right now all I can think about isputting distance between us and whatever clusterfuck is about to descend on this area.
The sand shifts treacherously under my boots as I push forward, each step sending fresh spikes of pain through my injured knee. I grit my teeth and power through it. Pain is just information, and right now the only information that matters is finding cover before?—
Gunfire erupts somewhere behind us, the sharp crack of rifles mixing with the deeper boom of heavier weapons. Sounds like the whole fucking Ghost Alpha Unit is here.
I duck behind a cluster of boulders, pressing my back against the sun-warmed stone while I catch my breath. I shift Cosima slightly, keeping my hand on her thigh rather than her ass. I know if she were awake, she'd knee me in the balls if my hand drifted an inch, even if I am saving the little psycho's life.
I scan the terrain, looking for better cover. The open desert is a sniper's wet dream, nothing but sand dunes and scattered cliffs for miles. But there—maybe half a click north—I spot a thicker copse of palms clustered around a cliff and what might be an old oasis. It's not perfect, but it's better than sitting here with my ass hanging out waiting to get shot.
The journey feels like it takes hours, though it's probably only minutes. Every shadow could hide an enemy. Every sound could herald our death. My gun stays in my free hand, safety off, finger hovering near the trigger. I keep Cosima draped over my shoulder, her silver hair swaying with each step like a beacon screaming "shoot here" to anyone watching. Not that I think they'd shoot an omega.
Me, on the other hand…
By the time we reach the palms, my shirt is soaked through with sweat and my knee feels like someone's taken a blowtorch to it. But we made it. The trees provide decent cover, their trunks thick enough to stop most small arms fire, and there's even a small spring bubbling up from the rocks.
Cute. A nice little spot to fucking die.
I adjust Cosima so I'm cradling her in my arms. She looks peaceful like this, all that fire and fury temporarily banked. I gently try to shake her awake as I sink against one of the palms for a rest. No dice.
"Come on, princess," I mutter, checking her pulse. Strong and steady, thank fuck. "This would be areallygood time to wake up and start critiquing my rescue. Maybe say I look sloppy in my gear."
She doesn't respond, but her breathing seems easier. Maybe the worst of whatever happened in her head is passing. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that because the alternative—that I broke something in her that can't be fixed—is too fucking heavy to carry right now.
A twig snaps behind me.
I'm back on my feet instantly, Cosima cradled against my chest in one arm, gun raised in the other hand, finger on the trigger. The movement sends fresh agony through my knee but I ignore it, focusing on the threat. Someone's here. Someone who moves like they know what they're doing, careful and quiet but not quite careful enough.
A familiar skull balaclava comes into view, along with dark hair long enough even Raven would approve.
Thane.
"You wouldn't shoot a man with an omega in his arms, soldier boy," I grit out.
