I cannot forget the past goddamn ten years we’ve worked together, lived together. No, not lived. We’ve survived.
Until her.
Always gods and monsters, but we had little to no purpose, no legacy, no scars but the ones on our backs—and the psychological ones we shared from our past.
Until her.
We were just chains without purpose—forged in trauma and fire, unbroken, but bound to nothing.
Until her.
As the Prophet’s SUV burns with the newly expired body doubles, we embark into the woods near the mine, get inside the tunnel, and make our way to our alternate supply pickup location.
Silence thickens. The dank, stale air drifts all around us when we should be surrounded by the scent of burning firewood, pine needles, and Briella. We would have spent the night in one bed. Me before her. Rory at her back. Jude and Vincent on each side of her legs, and Seth curled up at her feet like a faithful worshiper. We would have risen with the dawn, fucked her till she couldn’t walk before a shower and a grand Christmas feast for breakfast.
And I am ultimately to blame. My responsibility. The moment I discovered the tracker, I should have done more than Protocol X. Too fucking overconfident in the ten years we spent reinforcing this place.
I underestimated thisProphet.
I should have planned for a good offense as the best defense. Take the fight to him first.
At the very least, I should have planned a retreat. We would have been on the run, but she would have been with us. She would be safe.
None of us speaks a word, but the tension could fill a canyon. The unspoken need burning inside all of us to reclaim our Queen. Except, it’s fire and ice in my system and the worst goddamn thirst I’ve ever had.
The old mining tunnel comes out in the middle of the woods. We wait for a few minutes, ensuring no drone activity.
After a mile of walking, we reach the fire watch tower under the cover of night. It rises like a skeleton out of the trees, all steel and shadow, barely holding together. It creaks in the wind—high, haunted. Perfectly overlooked.
We duck under the black branches as the tower groans above us.
Inside, the air is stale with dust and old ash. Seth sweeps for vermin. Jude sets up the comms. Vincent peels off to the corner and pulls out his phone. “I’m calling in the code. Barn’s live. I left the door key under the trough.”
I nod. Provided all goes well—it must, there is no other choice—we will return to gather as many belongings as possible, including the animals, then find an alternate location. We begin again. We rebuild. Our Queen at our side.
Unrolling the map across the rotting desk near the busted window, I inspect the distance to Easthaven. The blueprints come next—printed from Briella’s thumb drive. I already knew. I spent a full hour inspecting every potted plant until I found the tech. If I were less of a bastard, I would have shared my pride in her. But I was too protective, too possessive. When any thoughts of her past already threatened to pollute her place with us, I would never share any of my knowledge of that past.
Jude sets his medical bag on the opposite end of the table, gaze roaming over the blueprints. They’ve got the Prophet’s whole damn compound sketched in holy arrogance. I smooth my palm over the page. Every hall. Every blind spot. Every hidden door he never thought we’d find.
Rory’s pacing. Back and forth. Heavy boots on wood, floorboards whining with every pass. His cleaver’s strapped to his back, and his jaw is locked tight enough to crack.
“He’s hurting her,” he growls without stopping, hands clenched into iron fists.
“I know.”
He pivots, stomps again. “You don’t understand?—”
“I said Iknow.” I cut sharply.
He stops.
I don’t look at him. Just keep tracing the path to the compound with my finger, the red ink I used to mark potential breach points. “You’ll get your chance,” I say quietly. “When the drones shift, and Alden’s men move out, we move.”
He doesn’t speak, but I hear the crackle of his leather gloves as he flexes his hands—like he’s already wrapping them around the Prophet’s throat.
Soon.
I fold the blueprints, sliding them back into my coat like a promise.
