Chapter 29
Seth
We move at the same time.
I cross the distance in a few long strides just as the crossbow slips from her hands, hitting the ground with a dull, forgotten thud.
I catch her as she reaches me, the impact knocking the breath from my chest. Rain slicks over us, soaking into our clothes as her arms lock around my neck with desperate strength. Her body shakes against mine.
I tear the balaclava from my face and kiss her.
Rain mixes with blood on my hands and smears across her cheek and jaw when I touch her. I don't care. I don't care about anything except the feeling of her weight in my arms.
She is alive.
That's all that matters.
I hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other braced between her shoulders.
I press my face into her hair as rain pours harder around us and let myself feel it.
The heat of her skin. The uneven pull of her breath.
The reality of her here with me. Relief hits so hard it nearly takes my legs out from under me.
She presses her face into the side of my neck, her breath breaking unevenly against my skin.
I cup her face in both hands and kiss her again. Her mouth trembles beneath mine. She tastes like blood and rain. I slide my hand to the back of her neck and pull her closer, deepening the kiss as the storm soaks through both of us.
Footsteps break through the moment.
I pull away and turn in one clean motion, gun already up. I fire twice. The first shot catches the guard in the shoulder and spins him off balance. The second goes straight through his face. He hits the ground with a heavy, final thud.
Brooke flinches at the sound, her breath hitching, but her arms stay tight around me.
She doesn't let go.
Beau’s voice cuts through the trees. “You two can reconnect later. We need to move. Now!”
I look down at her. Her eyes are wide and glassy, shock clinging to her like a second skin.
I press my forehead to hers for half a second.
Then I take her hand and we run.
We tear through the trees, my arm locked tight around Brooke’s waist. Blood seeps from her shoulder, dripping onto leaves and roots, marking our path through the underbrush. I keep her pulled close, my body angled between hers and the gunfire cracking behind us.
Every shot I take is fast and precise. One guard drops with a round through the skull. Another goes down screaming after I shatter his kneecap and leave him where he falls. I don't give them time to recover. I don't give them time to aim.
“Watch the ground,” Brooke gasps, her voice raw. “They set traps.”
I tighten my hold on her and slow just enough to scan the path ahead.
A faint glint catches my eye. Thin wire stretches between two trees.
I yank her back a step and shift us sideways.
I fire through the brush ahead without hesitation.
A man screams, then collapses out of sight before we even see his face.
The trees open into a clearing.
Boots thunder behind us.
I spin and fire twice. Another guard drops into the clearing.
Beau bursts in from the left, weapon up, moving with ruthless efficiency. He takes down two more guards before I can speak. The third turns to run. I catch him mid-step, one clean shot to the spine. He hits the ground face-first.
We keep moving.
We burst through a side entrance of the manor, the door slamming back against the wall as I take point. My pistol tracks the hallway, my arm steady as I clear corners and doorframes.
Brooke stays tight on my right. Her breathing comes ragged and uneven, each step a fraction slower than the last. Her weight shifts wrong, like she is compensating for pain she refuses to acknowledge.
A door creaks open ahead of us.
The physician steps into the hallway slowly with his hands raised, his palms open to show he is unarmed. His face has gone pale, and his eyes move between the gun in my hand and Brooke standing behind me.
I keep the pistol trained on him.
“Did he help you escape?” I ask.
Brooke looks at the physician. For a moment she doesn't move, her chest lifting as if she is about to speak.
“Seth, wait—”
The words catch before she finishes them.
That hesitation is enough.
I pull the trigger.
The shot cracks through the hallway and the round tears through his skull. His head snaps back and his body collapses where he stands, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Brooke flinches hard at the sound, her shoulders tightening as she stares down at the body.
I pull her closer as we keep moving.
Behind us, Beau reloads smoothly as we reach the main corridor. Brooke lifts her hand and points, her fingers shaking.
A faint glint catches my eye near the frame.
I follow it up and see the thin wire leading to a massive double-bladed axe suspended just inside the doorway, positioned to swing at head height.
One clean arc would have taken someone apart.
I fire twice into the mechanism. The chain snaps, and the axe drops, slamming into the tile with a metallic crash that echoes down the hall.
“Clear,” Beau calls.
We push into the foyer. Through the glass walls, the courtyard is already alive with movement. Guards converge from every direction, weapons raised, shouting over one another.
I pull Brooke closer, one arm locked around her waist, keeping her upright and shielded against me. My other hand stays on the gun, firing as fast as I can line up shots.
Two rush in from the right. I put the first down with a round through the jaw, pivot, and drive a shot into the second man’s chest before he can steady his aim. Beau handles the left with ruthless efficiency. Brooke stays low and close, her legs shaking with every step, but she doesn't stop.
We force our way forward through smoke, noise, and bodies.
We reach the front gate.
The SUV waits just beyond. Travis leans out from behind the wheel, his eyes wild as he spots us.
“Run,” he shouts. “Get in the fucking car. Now!”
I look down.
Brooke is limping badly now. One arm hangs useless at her side.
Without hesitating, I slide my arm under her knees and lift her into my arms. She doesn't fight it. She wraps her good arm around my neck and holds on.
Gunfire cracks behind us again.
Beau tosses a grenade over his shoulder. The blast sends a shockwave through the clearing. I bend over Brooke, shielding her with my body, and keep moving.
We reach the SUV.
I wrench the back door open and lower Brooke inside, turning my body to block hers as shots snap past us.
Beau dives in the passenger seat, already shouting at Travis.
“Drive!”
The tires scream, gravel sprays. The SUV lurches forward hard enough to slam us back against the seats.
I look down at Brooke.
She doesn't cry. She doesn't blink. Her eyes stay locked on mine, wide and distant, like she is still half trapped somewhere else.
I kiss her.
She doesn't respond at first. Her body stays rigid, her breath shallow and uneven. Shock has flattened her expression, smoothed everything into something frighteningly empty. I pull back just enough to see her face.
“Brooke.”
Her eyes focus slowly. She nods once, like it takes effort.
There's too much blood.
The white dress is ruined, soaked through in places and smeared in others, clinging where it should not.
I ease her back against the seat, bracing her carefully, forcing my breathing to slow even as my pulse slams in my ears. “I need to check you.”
She doesn't argue.
I don't start gently. I hook my fingers into the fabric at her midsection and tear upward in one hard motion, ripping the dress open so I can see her stomach and ribs.
I need to know if she has been shot or stabbed somewhere that will end her fast. My eyes scan every inch of exposed skin, searching for wounds, for blood that doesn't belong where it is pooling.
Nothing fatal.
Only deep bruises spreading beneath the skin.
I swallow and move on.
I start with her arms. Dark bruises line her forearms and biceps, finger-shaped and unmistakable. The sight twists something hot and violent in my chest. I move to her right wrist and see the bandaging immediately, wrapped too tight, dirty, uneven. Someone did it fast with whatever they had.
I unwrap it slowly.
Her hand is badly swollen. The wrist beneath it is worse, purple and distorted, the joint locked stiff from swelling.
My jaw clenches until it hurts.
I check her left arm next. More bruising. More damage. The anger keeps stacking, heavier with every mark, but I force it down. She needs me focused.
I move to her face. A bruise blooms under one eye. Scratches trace her jaw. Her lip is split. Her neck is mottled with bruises.
My hands shake. I keep them steady.
I check her legs. Scrapes cover both knees. Bruises line her thighs. She flinches when I touch her ankle, and I feel the way she shifts, protecting one side of her body without thinking.
I follow the blood instead of asking questions.
When I reach her shoulder, I see the wound clearly. The entry wound is swollen and angry, blood still seeping through the torn fabric.
I exhale slowly, my eyes never leaving it.
“He shot me,” Brooke says quietly. “I pulled it out.”
That pushes my anger over the edge.
I swallow it down because losing control won't help her.
I lift the hem of the dress and check the rest of her. Her thighs are smeared with dirt and blood, her skin cold beneath my hands. I move higher with intent, shutting everything else out, focused only on finding injuries, not on the way her body shakes under my touch.
Then I see it.
Blood soaks her underwear.
My breath stalls hard in my chest, like something has reached in and squeezed my lungs shut.
I blink once, then again, forcing myself to look for another explanation. I tell myself it has to be from her hip, her leg, anywhere else I can make it make sense.
It is not.
It is exactly what it looks like.
I don't ask her. I can't say anything.
I already know what it means.