Lark
Location: In Transit — Escape Vehicle
Time: Minutes Later
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From everything after it.
Adrenaline burns off fast. What’s left behind is heavier. Slower. Real.
The car smells like gunpowder, blood, and smoke that hasn’t settled yet.
Aaron is driving.
Too fast.
Too controlled.
Too quiet.
He’s bleeding.
Not a lot.
But enough.
“You’re hit,” I say.
“Later.”
“No. Now.”
My voice is steadier than I feel.
I reach for the med kit Ronan shoved into the console before we tore out of the loading bay. My fingers fumble for a second—just a second—before I get control back.
Focus.
I press the gauze against his shoulder.
He hisses under his breath.
“That bad?” I ask.
“That’s necessary,” I answer, already working.
I shift closer, bracing myself against the seat as the car takes a sharp turn. My knee presses against his thigh. My shoulder brushes his arm.
Neither of us pulls away.
I clean the wound quickly.
Efficient.
Precise.
