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Burned rubber.
Blood on the ground.
Bodies.
But no Mila.
“No.”
The word rips out of me.
Raw.
Uncontrolled.
I drop to one knee.
Hand hitting the dirt.
Still warm.
She was here.
“She fought,” Ronan says behind me.
Voice low.
Controlled.
I already know.
I can feel it.
In every broken branch.
Every shell casing.
Every drop of blood.
My chest tightens.
Hard.
“She didn’t run,” I say.
“No,” Cal agrees.
“She didn’t.”
My hands curl into fists.
Shaking.
Because I know what this means.
“She was taken.”
The words taste like fire.
