I wasn’t sure if I hated him… or if I’d never stopped loving him.
7
Adam
The cable swung hard in the wind, but my arms never loosened around her. Even soaked to the bone, Raine was fire—thrashing, furious, alive. I’d almost lost her again. And it gutted me.
We touched down on the landing pad, rotor wash whipping spray into my eyes. I unclipped her first, lowering her to her feet, then set the old man gently on the stretcher waiting nearby. Medics swarmed, voices sharp and clinical.
But I only saw her.
Raine yanked her harness off like it was strangling her, braid dripping water down her back. She was pale, lips trembling from cold, but her eyes burned when they met mine.
“You don’t get to do that,” she snapped, stepping close enough that I felt her shiver. “You don’t get to play the hero and haul me around like I’m baggage.”
I bit back the dozen things I wanted to say. That she scared the hell out of me. That I’d rather break every bone in my body than watch her go under that water. That the thought of losing her again made me sick.
Instead, I said the one thing guaranteed to set her off.
“You’re welcome.”
Her mouth fell open, outrage warring with something softer in her eyes. She snapped it shut again and shoved past me toward the triage tent.
Boone appeared at my shoulder, dripping wet and grinning like the devil. “Well, that was subtle.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face.
Russ followed, calm as ever. “She’s good, Stoker. Strong. Knows what she’s doing. you need to let go of the past for now.”
“I know what she’s doing,” I ground out. “She’s trying to get herself killed.”
Russ’s steady gaze met mine. “Or maybe she’s trying to save people. Same as you.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because the truth was, Russ was right. She was as relentless as I was. That was the problem.
And God help me, it was also what made me want her more than I ever should.
8
Raine
The triage tent smelled like antiseptic, wet earth, and exhaustion. A heater rattled in the corner, pushing lukewarm air across rows of cots. My clothes clung like ice, braid dripping onto my collar. I should’ve felt relief—we’d saved them. The family was alive. That was all that mattered.
So why did my hands still shake?
“Sit,” one of the medics ordered.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, though the ache in my ribs said otherwise. My palms were raw, a slice of glass stinging along my forearm. But it wasn’t pain that made my chest tight.
It was him.
Adam Stoker. I could still feel the burn of his arm locked around me, the steadiness of his heartbeat pounding against my back when the house gave way. For one suspended moment in that flood, it hadn’t mattered how much I hated him. I’d clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.
And that terrified me more than drowning ever could.
“Carter.”
