Closer than before.
Too close.
“Move,” I snap.
We take off again—faster now, pushing through the brush, cutting direction twice in under thirty seconds.
“They’re tightening again,” Mila says.
“Yeah.”
“They’re not guessing anymore.”
“No.”
Because Ford doesn’t guess.
He calculates.
Another shot—
Closer—
I grab her—pull her down behind a fallen tree just as bark explodes where she was standing.
“Stay down,” I growl.
“I was moving—”
“You were exposed.”
“So were you!”
“I’m not the target.”
That—
That was the wrong thing to say.
Mila
I go still.
Not because of the danger.
Because of him.
“You don’t get to say that,” I say quietly.
His eyes narrow.
“Say what?”
“That I matter more than you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
