The sounds reached him first—disconnected, meaningless—echoing through the fog in his mind. Wind. Rain. Thunder, maybe. Or his own blood pounding in his ears.
Zach couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force his eyes open.
But his mind—that came back first.
Awareness. Vague sensations.
He lay on his back. Hard surface beneath him. Cold seeped through his clothes. Rain soaked his face. The storm overhead, close enough that he could feel the vibration of thunder through the ground.
Cold? That didn’t fit. Wasn’t he on Isla Nocturna? Wind. Rain. The hurricane. He must be out in it. Why? He pushed the question away for the moment.
Assessment.
His body wasn’t responding. Paralysis. No—not complete. His fingers twitched when he thought about moving them. His chest rose and fell. Breathing. Heartbeat steady but sluggish.
Poison.
The memory crashed over him like an icy wave. The assassin. The knife. Emma hauling him out of the cave while his legs gave out, and the world tilted sideways.
He’d been compromised. Vulnerable. Useless.
Full sensation slammed into him.
Pain.
Not the sharp, immediate kind. This was deeper. A slow burn radiating through his muscles, settling into his bones. His nervous system was trying to reboot itself while whatever toxin flooded his veins gradually loosened its grip.
Zach focused on that sensation. Catalogued it. The burning was… fading. Not gone, but receding like a tide pulling back from the shore. The heaviness in his limbs—still there, but lifting. Degree by degree.
He could feel his fingers now. His toes. The connection between thought and movement reestablishing itself in fragments.
His Guardian healing was fighting back.
Emma did something.
The realization surfaced slowly, pulling memories with it.
Emma’s voice. Calm. Steady. Telling him to stay still, that she had him.
Her hands on his skin, warm despite the rain. Pressing something against his cut—cloth? No. Leaves. Crushed vegetation, sharp and bitter in the air.
The scent came back to him now. Earthy. Astringent. Mixed with rain and that faint trace of sandalwood vanilla that he would always associate with her presence.
A poultice.
She’d made him a damned poultice in the middle of a storm, after seeing him kill a man, and somehow it had worked.
…one bomb, there might be more. Yo, Zach, I’ll let you handle bomb disposal.
David’s thought crashed into Zach’s mind. Bomb?David? Nick?He tried to send back, but his mind was too fuzzy to concentrate properly.
Zach forced his eyes open.
The world swam. Gray sky, darker clouds, rain falling in sheets. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. His head turned—sluggish, uncoordinated, but itturned—and he registered his surroundings.
Shelter. Rock outcrop. He was still where she’d dragged him.
Alone.
