Page 118 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“Hank. Stay with me.” My voice breaks, softer now. “Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this.” I squeeze his hand, willing strength into him. “Don’t you dare check out on us.” His pulse flutters beneath my fingers—thready and fading.
The thought of losing him carves a hole inside me I didn’t know could exist.
Ally looks up, eyes glistening. “He needs a trauma bay. He needs blood. And we’re—what—miles out?”
Understanding passes between us. We might not make it in time.
She drops her gaze to Hank, but her hands are shaking.
Blake stares forward, jaw locked. Rigel’s already on comms, voice tight with urgency, calling for med evac.
I look at the women we rescued—battered, traumatized, but alive. Alive and fighting. Just like us. But my focus keeps returning to Hank’s pale face, to the blood soaking through the bandage Ally presses against his shoulder.
All I see is Hank. The man I would burn the world for.
His blood stains my hands, and all I can do is pray that whatever gods exist out here in this godforsaken dark are listening.
Because I can’t lose him. Not now.
Not ever.
The boat speeds into the night, leaving Malfor’s compound behind.
I grip Hank’s hand tighter, a cold certainty settling in my chest as I watch his blood seep through the bandage, and pray.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Run Silent
ALLY
The RIB slamsinto another wave. Salt spray slices across my face, mixing with the sting of wind and blood. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I can’t—because Hank’s face is going slack, and if I lose sight of him now, I might never see him alive again.
Too much blood. Not enough time.
They came for us.
The truth doesn’t just hit—it detonates, sharp and blinding, like shrapnel to the chest. My knees buckle. Breath locks in my throat. Every nerve fires at once, unable to process the impossible.
I saw their bodies explode. Saw the fireball swallow them whole. Watched the footage over and over, forced to memorize every frame while Malfor whispered what it meant—that they were gone. That I’d failed. That love could be obliterated with a single detonation.
But they’re here. Bleeding. Breathing. And now, maybe dying.
I can’t make sense of it. My brain stutters, glitching between grief and hope. Hallucination? Dream? Trap?
Gabe’s eyes meet mine, and something inside me fractures.
I can’t look. I can’t not look.
My hands tremble. My vision blurs. The sound of the ocean, the girls crying, the motor’s rumble—all of it fades beneath the roar of my own heartbeat.
“Keep pressure.” I guide Malia’s hands to the soaked field dressing on Hank’s shoulder. The bullet went clean through, but that just means two holes bleeding out instead of one.
The night ocean churns black around us, our wake cutting a white path through the darkness. The wind tears at my hair, carrying away the smell of copper and gunpowder. The constant thunder of twin outboard engines nearly drowns out my thoughts.
Nearly, but not quite.
They came for us.
