They’re here.
Scorch Squad is here.
My Pack.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or sob. Maybe all three at once.
Somehow, against every impossibility, they’re here. In this burning town, in the middle of a war, with bullets flying, and death closing in.
My Pack came for me.
Knox shifts again, dragging himself upright with a snarl. His blood-slick hand plants beside my ribs as he braces himself, his other arm cradling his side as if he’s trying to keep his insides from spilling out.
I try to sit up.
“Don’t,” he growls, and it’s the exact same tone he used the day I almost broke my hand during an evasion drill. Only now, there’s a tremble in it. Raw, feral desperation trying to wear the skin of authority.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He looks down at me, then at my leg.
His pupils blow wide, and something snaps.
The Alpha mask shatters, and what’s left underneath is just Knox. Not a Prime Alpha or a soldier.
Just Knox who is bleeding, broken, furious, and terrified… for me.
I look down at my thigh to see what he’s so rattled by.
The fabric around the bullet wound is soaked through, clinging to my skin, the blood dark and glossy and very much still coming.
His hoarse voice punches out of him. “Fuck.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper again, but even I can hear the tremble. “You’re the one who got turned into a pincushion.”
He’s hit in every part of his body, multiple times in the same spot. Other than a bullet to the head, repeated trauma is one of the few ways to kill an Alpha. They bleed out before they can heal.
He doesn’t answer. Just presses his palm to my thigh, right on the wound, like he can stop the bleeding with sheer Alpha willpower. Blood oozes through his fingers.
“You’re hurt worse,” I protest, pushing at his shoulder. “You need to—”
“Stop, Halley.”
He said my name. He never says my first name. It’s always Omega Sparks. Or… or Princess.
Knox adjusts his grip on my thigh, and for one stupid second, I think he’s going to give me a hug.
Instead, he moves.
Fast.
Fierce.
His arm slides under my knees, the other behind my back, and he lifts me in one brutal motion that makes my breath hitch.
“Knox,” I protest, trying to twist away. “You’re really hurt. You shouldn’t—”
“Shut up,” he grits out, voice pitched so low I feel it in my ribs. “You’re not walking.”
