“STOP.”
The overseer froze.
Isaiah’s breath caught.
Her father stepped into the clearing.
His coat was torn, his shoulder bandaged from Jonas’s bullet, his face pale with fury and pain. But his eyes — cold, sharp, unyielding — were fixed on Isaiah.
“Bring him to me,” he said.
The overseer dragged Isaiah out from beneath the roots and dropped him at her father’s feet.
Isaiah groaned, his vision blurring.
Her father knelt beside him.
“You should have died in that fire,” he said softly.
Isaiah met his gaze. “You tried.”
Her father’s jaw tightened. “And I will finish what I started.”
Isaiah swallowed hard. “Clara… won’t let you.”
Her father’s eyes darkened. “Clara is my daughter. She will obey.”
Isaiah shook his head weakly. “Not anymore.”
Her father’s face twisted with rage.
He stood.
“Hold him,” he ordered.
The overseer pinned Isaiah to the ground.
Her father reached for his pistol.
Isaiah closed his eyes.
If this was the end — at least he had loved her. At least she had loved him.
But before her father could raise the gun—
A voice rang through the trees.