Chapter 29
JOLIE
The tunnel narrows again as we move deeper, the air thickening with that same mineral weight that clings to the back of my throat, but there’s something else layered under it now—faint, mechanical, a distant sound that doesn’t belong to stone or wind.
It vibrates just enough through the ground to register in my boots, a low, constant reminder that we’re getting close to something structured, something controlled.
“You feel that?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I adjust my step over a jagged break in the floor.
Hrask doesn’t look back, but his head tilts slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s system bleed. We’re under the outer grid now.”
“Which means?” I press.
“Which means we’re running out of space to mess this up,” he replies.
“Good,” I mutter. “I was getting bored.”
He huffs a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, but it fades fast.
The tunnel opens just enough ahead to create a shallow pocket in the rock, a place where the walls pull back and the ceiling lifts slightly, and he slows as we reach it, his pace shifting from forward motion to something more deliberate.
“Hold up,” he says.
I stop immediately, my body already keyed into the change in his tone, the way it drops just slightly when he’s about to pivot from movement to decision.
“What is it?” I ask, scanning the space automatically.
“Nothing yet,” he replies, stepping into the center of the pocket and turning to face me fully.
That’s new.
My brow furrows slightly as I watch him, the shift in posture registering before the reason does.
“Why are you stopping?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looks at me—really looks, not the quick assessments we’ve been trading since the basin, but something slower, more deliberate, his gaze moving over the way I’m standing, the way I’m holding myself together.
“Don’t,” I say immediately, narrowing my eyes. “Whatever that is, don’t do it.”
“Jolie,” he starts.
“No,” I cut him off, taking a step forward. “You don’t get to start a sentence like that unless you’re about to say something I’m not going to like.”
And there it is—that shift, that subtle pull inward like he’s already made the decision and now he’s just figuring out how to deliver it.
“You’re staying here,” he says.
The words land flat.
Heavy.
Wrong.
I blink at him once, like maybe I heard it wrong.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice dropping lower instead of rising.
“You already got hurt once,” he continues, his tone steady like he thinks that makes it better.
“Try that again,” I say, taking another step closer. “But this time make it make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” he replies. “You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness, and that’s not going to carry you through what’s inside that facility.”
“Neither is you going in alone,” I snap.
“I don’t need backup for this,” he says.
I laugh, short and sharp, the sound echoing faintly off the stone around us.
“Wow,” I mutter. “That’s actually impressive, even for you.”
“Jolie—”
“No, don’t,” I cut in again, my hands coming up as I gesture sharply. “Don’t stand there and tell me I’ve come this far just to sit in a hole while you go play hero.”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, his voice tightening slightly.
“That’s exactly what this is,” I fire back. “You’re making the call for both of us again.”
His expression hardens.
“I’m making the call that keeps you alive,” he says.
“I was alive before you showed up,” I shoot back.
“Barely,” he counters.
“Still counts,” I snap, stepping closer until there’s barely any space between us. “You don’t get to decide I’m done just because it makes your plan easier.”
“This isn’t about easy,” he says, his voice dropping. “This is about finishing it.”
“And I’m part of that,” I reply, my gaze locking onto his. “Whether you like it or not.”
He exhales, dragging a hand back through his hair, and for a second, something cracks through the control he’s been holding onto.
“I’m not risking you in there,” he says.
“You’re not risking me?” I repeat, my voice flattening. “Or you’re not risking yourself?”
His eyes snap back to mine.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“Neither is this,” I reply immediately. “You don’t get to walk in here, tell me we’re doing this together, and then pull this at the last second.”
“I’m adjusting the plan,” he says.
“No,” I shake my head, stepping back just enough to put space between us again. “You’re repeating it.”
He stills.
“Repeating what?” he asks.
I hold his gaze.
“The part where you decide you know better and leave me out of it,” I say.
The words hang there, heavier than anything else we’ve said.
I can see the moment he realizes exactly what I’m pointing at.
“This isn’t the same,” he says, quieter now.
“It feels the same,” I reply.
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
“You said you made the wrong call,” I continue, my voice steadier now. “Back there. You said you should’ve moved when I did.”
“I did,” he says.
“Then why are you doing it again?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looks at me like he’s trying to find a version of this where I understand without him having to say it.
“I’m not leaving you behind because I think you’re weak,” he says finally.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter.
“I’m leaving you here because if something goes wrong in there, I need to know you’re not caught in it,” he says.
“And if something goes wrong in there,” I counter, “you’re just… what? Gone?”
His silence answers that faster than anything else could.
“Wow,” I breathe, something tight twisting in my chest. “That’s your plan?”
“That’s the risk,” he says.
“No,” I shake my head, anger pushing through the exhaustion now. “That’s you deciding I don’t get a say in it.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he snaps.
“And I’m trying to finish this,” I fire back. “Which doesn’t happen if you go in alone and don’t come back out.”
We stand there, the space between us charged with everything neither of us is willing to give up.
“Move,” I say finally, stepping past him. “We’re wasting time.”
His hand catches my arm before I make it two steps.
“Jolie,” he says, his grip firm.
“Let go,” I snap, trying to pull free.
“Not this time,” he replies.
I twist, trying to break his hold, but he shifts with me, his grip tightening just enough to stop me without hurting me.
“Don’t do this,” I warn.
“I’m already doing it,” he says.
I drive my elbow back toward his ribs.
He anticipates it.
Of course he does.
His other hand comes up, catching the motion and redirecting it, and suddenly I’m off balance, my injured side betraying me as he turns the movement against me.
“Really?” I hiss. “That’s what we’re doing now?”
“You’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice low and controlled as he shifts behind me.
“I’m thinking just fine,” I shoot back, struggling against him.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
He moves fast.
Faster than I expect.
One second I’m fighting him, the next my arms are pinned, his grip locking them back just enough to take my leverage away without cutting off movement entirely.
“Let me go,” I snap, twisting again.
“No,” he says.
“Hrask—”
“I’m not losing you in there,” he cuts in, his voice dropping lower, closer to my ear now. “Not like that.”
“And you think this is better?” I fire back. “You think me sitting here waiting to find out if you make it out is better?”
“I think it gives you a chance,” he says.
“I don’t want a chance,” I snap. “I want to finish it.”
His grip tightens slightly, then shifts, and I feel the restraint change as he adjusts his hold, one hand releasing just long enough to grab something from his belt.
“Don’t you dare—” I start.
Too late.
The restraint locks around my wrists, tight enough to hold, not tight enough to cut circulation, and he steps back before I can swing at him again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathe, staring down at the bind.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
“Yeah?” I laugh, sharp and furious. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Yeah,” he replies, meeting my gaze.
“Untie me,” I demand.
“No.”
“Untie me,” I repeat, stepping toward him.
He doesn’t move.
“Not happening,” he says.
I stare at him, the anger sitting just under the surface, sharp and ready.
“You don’t get to make this call,” I say.
“I just did,” he replies.
The silence that follows stretches tight.
“You come back,” I say finally, my voice lower now, more controlled. “You better have a damn good explanation.”
A flicker crosses his expression.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will.”
Then he turns.
And walks away.
I stand there for exactly half a second before I start moving again, twisting my wrists, testing the restraint, feeling for weak points.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, working the angle. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
The material bites just enough to tell me it’s not going to give easily, but not enough to stop me from trying.
“You really thought that was going to hold me,” I say under my breath, shifting my grip, bracing the restraint against the edge of the rock.
I pull.
Hard.
It doesn’t snap.
“Okay,” I mutter, adjusting. “Then we do this the hard way.”
I shift again, testing the angle, the tension, the give.
“You don’t leave me behind,” I whisper, more to myself now than anything else.
Because this isn’t over.