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Ryder roared.

Pressing his advantage, Heath pinned his forearm against Ryder’s windpipe. He threw his entire weight down into the choke, bringing his shattered, bloody face close enough for the blood from his chin to stain Ryder’s shirt collar.

“She begged the whole way here, you know,” he rasped. “You should’ve heard her.”

Ryder’s heels dug furrows in the ground. His free hand clawed at Heath’s arm and slipped off.

Heath’s voice was a wet, ugly whisper. “You’re going to die in the dirt. And then I’m going to use your little pet in whatever way I want.”

No.

She ran toward them to knock Heath off Ryder, but he backhanded her with his free arm without even looking at her, throwing her back onto the ground.

Ryder’s fingers stopped fumbling against the choke hold. Cocking his arm back, he drove the heel of his palm directly into Heath’s already shattered nose.

Heath screamed. His weight came off Ryder’s throat for half a second.

But that was all Ryder needed. Bucking his hips to pitch Heath sideways into the dirt, he scrambled onto all fours, coughing violently as he fought to drag in oxygen.

Heath didn’t stay down, dragging himself on hands and knees toward the dark thicket where the pistol had been knocked.

Ryder lunged and caught him by the ankle. He hauled Heath backward across the ground, flipped him over, and hit him.

And didn’t stop.

Heath raised his arms in a desperate guard, but Ryder batted them away to rain down a relentless series of heavy, flat punches. The dull, thumping impact of each fist against bone was a sound Cassandra knew she would never forget. Heath’s limbs dropped limp against the earth, completely still.

This was the Ryder she’d never seen. This was the Ryder he’d been trying to punish in the gym long after his knuckles split.

If he killed Heath now, she knew he’d never stop punishing himself. He would see the body as final proof of his own inner darkness, and he would seal himself off from anything she could ever say to convince him otherwise.

Ryder twisted his fingers into Heath’s collar, ripping the man’s limp torso clear of the dirt. He cocked his right hand back. One more heavy blow would put Heath Diehl in the ground for good.

“Ryder.” She bridged the small gap between them, pressing her tied wrists firmly against his forearm. The muscle beneath her fingers felt like solid iron.

She wasn’t even sure he could hear her with how he was locked in on Heath. His desperate urge to finish this was clear.

“Ryder, look at me,” she pleaded, forcing her voice into the space between them. “Just me.”

He stayed locked on his target, leaving her suspended in agonizing uncertainty for a heartbeat.

Then his fist opened.

Releasing his grip, he let Heath drop back into the dirt. Ryder’s arm fell limp to his side, his knees buckling to the ground as his gaze finally shifted up to meet hers.

“I’m sorry.” His vocal cords were raspy from the crush of Heath’s forearm. His focus darted from the unconscious shape on the ground to the slick blood on his hands. “I couldn’t stop. I⁠—”

“You did stop.”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, bringing her bound wrists up over his head, anchoring herself around his neck to bridge the distance. His arms instantly pinned her against his chest, locking tight as he buried his face in her hair, his breath ragged and uneven against her skin.

“You stopped.” She said it against his neck. “And I’d still have chosen you if you hadn’t.”

His arms tightened until she could barely breathe. She didn’t care.

Beams of light fractured the distant tree line, accompanied by shouting voices echoing through the timber. Isaac and Nolan were calling out for them, but neither answered. Not yet.

They knelt in the dirt with each other and held on.