Arsen rips his gloves off and throws them to the floor. “You think I don’t fucking know that? You think I wanted this to go to shit?”
Someone slams a forearm across Priest’s chest before he can lunge at Arsen again.
“You need to get your shit together, Priest,” Arsen snarls. “We’re not out of this yet.”
“Want me to cut your goddamn hands off?” Priest snaps.
The truck is in total chaos. Shouts overlapping. Blood everywhere. Men struggling to stay upright as the vehicle careens through the trees, swerving to avoid bullets.
In the storm of voices, I catch pieces—Dalton was working for Sterling. Alistair was never in the facility. None of the teams found him.
Everything’s spiraling. Everyone’s talking over each other, arguing about regroup points, status checks, ammo counts. But it’s useless.
There’s no plan. No direction. Just survival. And even that’s falling apart.
I slide to the floor of the truck, back to the cold wall. The metal shocks through the sweat on my spine. Then the back of the truck explodes with gunfire.
Bullets violently smack the exterior. A sharp ping ricochets off the ceiling near my head. The vehicle jerks hard. Tires screech. We veer to the left. A soldier next to me goes down, clutching a bleeding leg and grunting through gritted teeth.
The world is still moving too fast—and then I hear him again.
“WE TAKE IT TO STERLING!” Priest roars, spit flying from his mouth as he thrashes against someone’s grip. “WE DON’T HIDE. WE DON’T CRAWL. WE MAKE THAT BASTARD BLEED!”
His voice cuts through everything else. Through the gunfire, the screaming, the pain.
And when I look up, I see it?—
He’s not here.
He’s trapped in some other place.
He’s clawing at the side of his neck—at the one-eight-seven tattoo—ripping his skin raw. Blood’s running down his throat, smeared along his collar. His knuckles are white around the bar above his head, the veins in his arms straining.
He’s unraveling. Right here in front of us, and no one knows how to stop it. Except maybe…me.
A dark, awful part of me wants to scream at him. To hit him. To tell him to shut the fuck up and look around at what’s left of us. At who he’s going to lose next if he keeps spiraling.
But another part of me—one that’s cracked and bruised and still tethered to him—just wants to reach him. Wants to bring him back. Even if it means losing myself in the process.
I drag myself up off the floor.
One step.
Then another.
He doesn’t see me coming. He’s still shouting and trying to fight. I grab his vest, yank him down with every ounce of strength I have left, and kiss him.
His whole body goes still, just for a second.
Then his hand fists in my shirt. The other slides up, cupping the back of my neck like he needs the contact as much as I do. His mouth crashes into mine, violently.
I breathe him in.
Smoke. Blood. Gunpowder. Rage.
But also something deeper—something broken and buried. Something so raw it nearly cuts me open just to touch it.
And it hits me—how easy it would be to fall. To give in to this darkness between us and let it consume me. To become whatever it is he sees when he looks at me with that wildfire stare. Because he believes we’re the same. That I’m already gone.
