Page 154 of Vow to Claim You

“Two dead. One escaped.”

“Find him.”

“Already deployed.”

“I want him alive.”

Tassilo nods. “Understood.”

He disappears, and then it’s just me. And her. And the blood that won’t stop coming.

Gently, I lay her on the leather sofa. I press my hand against the wound. Abdomen. Right side. Too much blood. It seeps hot and slick between my fingers, and I press harder.

She doesn’t react or flinch or open her eyes and tell me I’m hurting her—the way she would if she were conscious. The way she would if she were okay.

“Ayanna.” I can’t stop saying her name, as if the sound of it might anchor her here. Might keep her from slipping into whatever’s pulling at her edges. “Stay with me.”

No response.

“That’s an order.”

Nothing.

“Ayanna—”

My voice breaks. Breaks.

I don’t break. I don’t crack. I don’t let anyone see what’s underneath the control, the calm, the careful mask I’ve worn since childhood. But she’s bleeding in my arms. She threw herself in front of a bullet meant for me. And I can feel her slipping with every heartbeat, every second that passes without the sound of a helicopter cutting through the dark.

The door opens, and there’s Naomi—her face a wreck of tears and terror, her whole body vibrating with the need to do something. Behind her, Eero. Behind him, Ingrid, already moving with a calm that feels almost offensive.

“I need towels,” I say. “Clean ones. Water. And⁠—”

“Already done.” Ingrid is beside me, arms full of white cloth, her face pale but her hands steady. “Kirill is en route. Eight minutes.”

Eight minutes. An eternity. Too long.

I press the towel to the wound, and the white turns red in seconds.

“She needs a hospital,” Naomi whispers, sobbing. “She needs⁠—”

“She needs to survive the next eight minutes.”

It comes out too harsh, and Naomi flinches like I’ve struck her. I don’t apologize. I can’t. If I soften, if I let even a fraction of what’s underneath show on my face, I won’t be able to put myself back together.

The helicopter’s engine and the specific sound of its blades reach us before I see it, then growing closer, cutting through the night like a promise of salvation. Like a hope I cannot allow myself to lose.

Ayanna hasn’t moved. Her breathing’s gone shallower. Her skin is gray now.

Gray. The color of death.

I’ve seen that color before. On enemies. On targets. On men I’ve put in the ground without a second thought.

Never on someone I…love.

Don’t.

She’s not dying. She’s not.