One short whistle cracked the silence in the yard.
It came from the breakwall—thin, final, carrying across the frost like glass under strain. For half a second it didn't register as danger, only sound slicing through the exhaust haze and the metallic tang still hanging from the firefight. Then Brock's spine locked. His hand froze on the crate lid. Across the lane, Knuckles and Kier both went still, faces turned toward the river's edge, pale under the yard light.
From the gate, Onyx straightened like he'd been yanked by a wire—rifle snapping up, eyes sweeping the dark between the containers. The whistle echoed once more, fainter this time, bouncing off corrugated steel and dying somewhere in the mist.
Brock's pulse jumped. One short meant abort.
He didn't hear it again. Instead, a voice rose from the breakwall, ragged and far—just a shape of sound at first, swallowed by the wind and the hum of the truck's cooling engine. Then the words carved through clean:
"Harper!"
The name hit like a round through his chest—not impact, but rupture. Everything inside Brock seized at once. Air. Blood. Thought. The world narrowed to that single word, shaped by panic, breaking on Mason's tongue like something dying.
The crowbar slipped from Brock's grip and hit the crate with a hollow clang. He didn't think. He was already moving, boots tearing gravel, air knifing his throat as he broke into a sprint.
"Onyx—watch that gate!" Knuckles roared, the command cracking through the dark as he launched after him. Kier followed without a word, vaulting a pallet stack and hitting the ground in a skid, rifle slung tight to his back.
The yard erupted into motion—three dark shapes cutting through the rows of containers, floodlight glare shattering across frost and steel. Brock's breath burned in his lungs. Every exhale came out white and fast, ragged with something that wasn't just exertion. The diesel stink from the dead truck still hung in the air, thick as oil, coating his tongue, mixing with the copper taste of panic.
He tore past the bodies they'd left cooling in the gravel, past the crate that still steamed where a bullet had punched through it. Frost crunched and slid under his boots, catching his balance once, twice, as he rounded the center row. Behind him, Knuckles' breath came rough and rhythmic, a half-beat out of sync with his own; Kier's gear clattered soft like teeth in the cold.
Another shout split the air—Mason again, closer now, voice ragged to breaking. The way it cracked on her name twisted something deep and old inside Brock's chest. Not command. Not warning. Grief.
He cut the corner too hard at the end of the container run, shoulder glancing metal with a brutal clang, nearly went down on the ice. His palm slapped concrete, caught himself, kept going. The river wind hit him full in the face, knife-cold, carrying salt and rust and the roar of rushing water.
Then he saw him.
Mason crouched at the breakwall's edge, one knee pressed to the concrete, his rifle abandoned beside him, breath fogging like smoke in the floodlight haze. His hands were clamped over the cold stone lip, fingers white from the strain of holding himself there, body pitched forward as though gravity itself were dragging him toward the river.
Brock's boots scraped to a stop a few yards back, the impact reverberating through the frost-hardened ground. For a second all he could hear was the churn of the current and the rattle of his own pulse hammering in his ears, in his throat, in his chest where her name still echoed.
"Mason." His voice came out rough, half-strangled, barely more than a rasp. "What the hell happened?"
Mason didn't look up. His eyes stayed locked on the black water below, pupils blown wide, the reflection of the floodlights caught like static across the surface of his face. When he spoke, his voice broke—shattered, coming apart at the seams.
"She—she went in." He swallowed hard, Adam's apple jerking, dragged in a ragged breath that clouded white in front of him. "Something hit her—someone—I swear to God, Brock, it looked like Gunner. He just—he came out of nowhere and she—" His voice cracked, splintered. "I turned around and she was gone."
The words hit Brock like a fist to the gut. His stomach dropped, the ground tilting beneath him, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roar building in his skull.
Kier's voice cut through, sharp and carrying from further down the wall. "There—there!" He was pointing out past the concrete, finger slicing through the floodlight glare, urgent and desperate. "In the water—downriver!"
Brock's head snapped toward the shout, heart slamming against his ribs. The current heaved below, catching the light in violent flashes of white over black, foam churning where the water broke against submerged debris. And there—there—movement.
Two forms locked together, half-submerged, spinning in the drag like rag dolls. The current yanked them under, spit them back up. He caught a flash of dark hair plastered to a pale face, the glint of a hand clawing for purchase, a jacket—her jacket—dragged sideways by the current.
Harper.
She was still fighting. Still alive.
The relief lasted half a heartbeat before terror crushed it flat. The river was fast—too fast—dragging them both downstream toward the deeper channel where the current funneled between concrete pillars. If they hit those supports, the water would pin them under. They'd drown in seconds.
Knuckles and Kier were already moving, boots hammering the breakwall as they ran parallel to the current, gear clattering against stone, voices echoing over the roar of the river. "Go, go, go!" Knuckles bellowed, rifle slapping his back with every stride.
Brock didn't think. Couldn't afford to.
His body was already in motion, instinct collapsing into one single, driving imperative: move.
He tore forward, lungs burning, shoulder slamming Mason aside as he reached the edge. The wind tore at his face, at his clothes, carrying the scent of ice and silt. The river stretched below him like an open throat, black and bottomless, churning with a violence that promised death.
He didn't care.
Brock launched himself off the wall.
The world dropped away—wind screaming past his ears, gravity ripping him down. The cold hit before the water did, knifing through his clothes, his skin, straight into his bones. Then the river swallowed him whole.
The impact ripped the breath from his chest in a violent gasp. Ice. Shock. The current seized him instantly, a living thing that clamped around his ribs and yanked, dragging him under with the weight of a landslide. Water filled his ears, his nose, his mouth—choking, blinding, crushing. Needles drove into every nerve. His lungs screamed for air that wasn't there.
He kicked hard, forcing his eyes open against the sting, the cold so intense it felt like his skull was splitting. The world was black, formless, the current spinning him like debris. He couldn't tell up from down. Couldn't see anything but churning dark and the faint ghost of light somewhere above.
Then—movement. A shadow in the current, twenty feet ahead, tumbling in the surge.
Her.
Brock kicked harder, arms cutting through the water in brutal strokes. The current fought him, dragged at his legs, his gear, trying to pull him down, pull him under. His lungs burned. His body screamed. He ignored it all. He wasn't losing her. Not here. Not now.
The river hit like a wall.
One second there was air, gravity, the edge of the breakwall vanishing beneath her boots. The next there was nothing but black water and impact—violent, absolute, swallowing her whole. It punched the breath from her lungs before she could catch it, stole the scream before it could leave her throat. The cold wasn't cold at first. It was pain—white-hot, total, erasing every boundary between skin and current until she couldn't tell where her body ended and the river began.
The shock seized her muscles. Her limbs locked, useless, her chest clamping tight around empty lungs. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. The current spun her like debris, weightless and blind, dragging her down into the black.
Then something caught her—hard, brutal. A hand fisted in her jacket, yanking her sideways. An arm locked around her waist. The press of a body against hers, heavy and desperate.
Gunner.
They went under together, tangled, thrashing. The world became chaos—spinning dark, the roar of water filling her ears until it was the only sound left. She couldn't see. Couldn't tell up from down. Just pressure, cold, the burn starting deep in her chest as her lungs screamed for air that wasn't there.
His weight shoved her deeper. His hand found her shoulder, her neck, fingers digging in as he used her—used her—to push himself up toward the surface. She felt his knee drive into her ribs, and the pain detonated white through her chest. A cry tried to tear loose but the water swallowed it, filled her mouth instead, choking, gagging.
Harper twisted, wild, clawing at his arm, his vest, anything. Her nails raked fabric, then skin. She felt him flinch but his grip only tightened, dragging her down as he kicked upward. She was an anchor. A sacrifice. He'd drown her to save himself.
Her lungs convulsed. The need for air was agony now, a fire spreading through her chest, her throat. She couldn't hold it. Her body betrayed her—mouth opening, gasping—and the river poured in. Cold. Choking. She gagged, coughed, pulled in more water. It burned down her throat, into her lungs, and the panic spiked so sharp it obliterated thought.
Her vision sparked white at the edges, black creeping in from the sides. The cold gnawed deeper, sinking teeth into her bones, her spine, her skull. Her pulse stuttered, uneven, too slow. The world was narrowing—sound and pressure and the terrible, drowning dark.
But she fought anyway.
Her hand shot out, found his face. She drove her fingers into his eye, his mouth, raking, clawing with everything she had left. He jerked back, grip loosening for half a heartbeat, and she twisted in the opening, drove her elbow up into his jaw. The impact jolted through both of them, muted by the water but enough to break his hold.
She kicked. Hard. Desperate. Her boot connected with something solid—his gut, his chest—and suddenly she was free, spinning in the current, tumbling. She didn't know which way was up. Couldn't see light. Couldn't feel anything but cold and the water crushing her from every side.
Her lungs were screaming, convulsing, trying to pull in breath that wasn't there. Black spots danced across her vision. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, the cold leeching the strength from her muscles. She was fading. She could feel it—consciousness slipping, the edges of the world going soft and distant.
Then her hand broke the surface. She clawed upward with the last scrap of strength she had, kicking weak and frantic, her head breaching the surface with a desperate gasp. The night air hit her face like a slap—sharp, freezing, but it was air. She sucked it in, coughing, choking on the water still lodged in her throat, her lungs burning as they tried to remember how to work.
The floodlights spun above her, distant and fractured. The roar of the current filled her ears. She couldn't feel her hands, her feet. Her body was shutting down, hypothermia sinking claws into her core.
Then Gunner surfaced beside her, gasping, blood streaming from his nose, his mouth. Their eyes locked for a single, wild second—both of them drowning, both of them dying, neither willing to let the other survive.
He lunged.
His hand caught her hair, wrenched her head back, shoved her under again. Water closed over her face, her eyes, her mouth still open mid-gasp. She went down choking, the scream trapped in her chest as the river swallowed her whole again.
Her hands found his wrist, his arm, clawing, pulling. She couldn't get leverage. Couldn't breathe. Her ribs were on fire, her lungs were full of water, and the cold was everywhere, inside her, eating her alive from the marrow out.
She was dying. She knew it. Could feel it in the way her body was giving up, the way her vision was tunneling to a pinpoint of light that kept shrinking, shrinking—
Her knee came up on instinct, desperation, the last animal reflex of a body refusing to quit. It drove into his ribs—hard, brutal. She felt something give. Heard the muffled grunt even underwater. His grip faltered.
She twisted, shoved, broke free again. Her head broke the surface and she gasped—ragged, wet, barely pulling air before the current spun her again. Her arms flailed, trying to stay up, trying to find something solid. Her legs kicked but they were numb, heavy, barely answering.
Gunner surfaced a few feet away, coughing blood into the black water, his face a mask of pain and fury. He lunged again, slower this time, his strength failing too. His hand caught her jacket, yanked. They both went under.
The world was black. Cold. The roar of water swallowing everything. She couldn't fight anymore. Couldn't move. Her body was done. The cold had won. She felt herself sinking, Gunner's weight still tangled with hers, both of them dragging each other down into the dark.
Knuckles and Kier tore down the length of the breakwall, boots hammering wet concrete, the night around them breaking apart into floodlight and shadow. The air tasted like metal, river spray hanging cold in their throats. Mason was right behind them, the echo of his steps mixing with the low thunder of the current.
Knuckles hit the end of the wall first and didn't stop. He vaulted the rusted guard rail, dropped six feet onto the narrow strip of pebble shore below, landing in a crouch hard enough to send stones scattering into the black water. Kier followed a heartbeat later, sliding the last few feet on the slick embankment, his rifle clattering against his chest as he hit.
The river was alive, writhing under the floodlights—slabs of light breaking and re-forming across its surface. Knuckles swept the channel with his eyes, heart pounding so loud it drowned half the sound of the water. He'd seen them. He was sure. Two shapes—one pale, one dark—locked together, surfacing once before vanishing again in the pull.
Then nothing.
He waded to the edge, water foaming over his boots, soaking through to his skin. The cold bit instant and vicious. "Where the fuck are they—"
"Knuckles!" Mason shouted as he skidded down from the wall behind them, landing off balance, breath ragged.
"I saw her!" Knuckles yelled back, voice cracking with the strain. He jabbed a gloved hand toward the current, eyes locked on the spot where the surface had rippled seconds ago. "There—right fucking there! She went under right past that line of light—"
A burst of movement broke the surface upcurrent. White spray in the dark. A silhouette rising, gasping, arms driving water aside.
Brock.
He came up heaving, shoulders sheened silver in the floodlight, head whipping side to side like he was searching. His breath tore out in ragged gasps, visible even from the shore.
Kier shouted first, "Brock! That way!" He pointed downriver, voice ragged from the cold. "She went under there—by the bend!"
Knuckles moved toward the water's edge until it swallowed his shins, the current grabbing at him like it wanted to take him too. He kept his eyes locked on the black roll of the river where he'd last seen her vanish. "Come on, come on…" he muttered through his teeth, breath fogging thick.
He caught sight of Brock turning in the current, shoulders heaving, following the gesture toward the deeper channel. The current hammered him sideways, dragging him toward the concrete pillars, but he drove forward with that grim, mechanical determination that had carried them all through worse.
"You've got her, Brock!" Knuckles shouted, voice breaking across the wind. "Right there—she's right fucking there!"
The river roared back, indifferent. Brock's silhouette cut through the water, each stroke heavy, fighting the drag. His head dipped under once, came back up. Then again.
Then—he was gone.
No warning. No flail. No sound. One moment Brock's head was there in the floodlight's edge, water sheeting off his back in white ribbons; the next, the surface swallowed him whole.
Knuckles froze, heart slamming against his ribs. "Fuck—" he breathed, stepping deeper into the surf without realizing it. The river bit at his thighs, icy through his pants, pulling at his balance. "Where is he—where the fuck is he?"
Kier was already at his side, scanning the black expanse with his jaw locked tight, every muscle drawn sharp under his soaked jacket. "I don't see him," he said, voice low but shaking. "Do you see anything?"
Mason stumbled down the rocks behind them, dropping to one knee at the edge, eyes wide and bloodshot. "He went under—Jesus, did he go under on purpose? Did he find her?"
Knuckles didn't answer. His eyes darted between the shifting tongues of current, trying to find a break, a shadow, *anything*. The floodlight glare fractured on the surface, scattering gold and white and black until it all blurred together. The river looked alive, breathing, folding in on itself as if it were hiding them both.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
No shape broke the surface. No sound but the current's low growl and the hiss of wind cutting through the yard beyond.
Knuckles' chest tightened. His pulse hammered in his throat, his ears, too loud and too fast. "Come on, Brock," he muttered, barely audible over the water. "Come on, man, don't do this—"
Kier shifted beside him, breath coming shorter. "Should we—"
"Wait," Knuckles cut him off, but his voice cracked. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. The cold was nothing compared to the dread crawling up his spine, the terrible certainty settling in his gut.
They were gone. Both of them. The river had taken them.
Forty seconds.
"Knuckles—" Mason started, voice breaking.
Then—a ripple.
Knuckles blinked, thought it was nothing. Thought it was the current playing tricks. Then the surface broke open twenty feet downriver.
Brock exploded out of the water with a sound that was half gasp, half roar, his arm hooked tight across someone's chest, dragging another body up with him. Harper. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, hair plastered across her face, arms hanging limp at her sides. The current snapped her jacket against his ribs as he kicked for the shore, his movements jerky, uncoordinated, like his body was barely answering.
"There!" Knuckles shouted, already breaking into a run. "Move—move!"
They tore down the shoreline, boots skidding on wet stone, the river pulling Brock and Harper further downstream with every second. Knuckles' lungs burned, legs pumping hard, Kier and Mason right behind him. The current was faster than Brock could swim—he was losing ground, being dragged toward the deeper channel.
"Brock—angle left!" Knuckles yelled, voice ripping across the wind. "We're coming!"
Thirty feet. Twenty. Knuckles hit the water at full speed, the cold shocking through his thighs as he waded in. Pebbles shifted treacherously under his boots but he didn't slow. Kier splashed in beside him, arms outstretched.
"Brock—here! Right here!"
Brock's face was white under the lights—not pale, white, lips blue-gray, eyes unfocused and glassy. His jaw hung slack, breath tearing out in violent, broken gasps. He kicked toward them but his strokes were weak, uneven. The current kept pulling him sideways.
Knuckles reached out as Brock closed the distance, grabbed his forearm. The contact was slick, freezing, and Brock's grip felt wrong—too weak, fingers cramping. "I got you—come on—"
Brock shoved Harper forward with the last of his strength, her body dead weight between them. "Get her—" he gasped, voice shredded, barely intelligible. "Get her—"
Kier splashed in beside Knuckles, catching Harper under her other arm. Between them they hauled her toward the stones, her head rolling to the side, water streaming from her hair, her mouth. Her skin was gray-blue in the floodlight. Her eyes were closed.
She wasn't moving.
"Fuck—Harper, no—" Knuckles dragged her onto the stones, lowered her flat on her back. Water spilled from her mouth, her nose. Her chest wasn't moving. "Harper!"
Brock crawled out of the river behind them on his hands and knees, coughing hard, retching river water onto the stones. His whole body shook violently, uncontrollably, his arms barely holding him up. He tried to speak but nothing came out except ragged, gasping breaths.
Knuckles leaned over Harper, fingers finding her throat, pressing for a pulse. Nothing. "She's not breathing—" His voice cracked. He tilted her head back, swept her mouth with two fingers—water, debris—then pinched her nose and sealed his mouth over hers. Two breaths. Her chest rose slightly, then fell.
"Come on, kid," he muttered, moving to her sternum. He locked his hands, started compressions. One. Two. Three. "Come *on*—"
Kier dropped to his knees beside him, hands shaking. "What do you need—"
"Count," Knuckles snapped. He pushed down hard, rhythmic, mechanical. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. He tilted her head again, gave two more breaths. Her lips were ice-cold against his.
Brock crawled closer, shaking so hard his teeth chattered audibly, one hand reaching for her arm. His fingers locked around her wrist but his grip was weak, trembling. "Harper—" Her name came out slurred, broken. He looked like he was about to collapse.
Mason stood above them, silent, dripping, rifle hanging useless at his side. His face was pale, eyes locked on Harper's still body.
Thirty more compressions. Two breaths. Nothing.
"Harper!" Knuckles' voice broke. He pressed harder, faster. "Don't you fucking do this—breathe!"
Another cycle. Another. His arms burned. Sweat mixed with river water on his face. Kier's count became a mantra in the background.
Then—Harper's body convulsed.
A violent, full-body spasm that arched her back off the stones. Knuckles pulled back just as she rolled onto her side, gagging, retching. Water poured from her mouth in a torrent—black, thick, mixed with bile. She coughed so hard her whole body shook, each breath a wet, tearing gasp that sounded like it was ripping her lungs apart.
"That's it—" Knuckles steadied her shoulder, leaning close. "Get it out, Harper. Get it all out."
She convulsed again, vomiting more water, more bile, her hands clawing weakly at the stones. Her eyes fluttered open—unfocused, wild, panicked. She tried to push herself up, tried to move, but her arms gave out and she collapsed back onto the stones, still coughing, still choking.
"You're okay," Knuckles said, voice tight, one hand on her back. "You're out. You're safe."
But Harper wasn't hearing him. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, darting side to side like she was still in the water, still fighting. Her hand shot out, grabbed at Knuckles' vest, grip weak but desperate. A sound tore from her throat—half sob, half scream—raw and broken.
"Harper—Harper, look at me." Knuckles caught her hand, squeezed. "You're out. You're on the shore. It's Knuckles. You're safe."
Her gaze finally focused on his face. Recognition flickered, then her expression crumpled. Another violent cough wracked her body, more water spilling from her lips. She was shaking—violent, uncontrollable tremors that rattled her teeth.
Kier was already stripping off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. "We gotta get her warm—she's hypothermic—"
A heavy sound behind them made Knuckles turn. Brock had collapsed onto his side, still shaking, one arm still outstretched toward Harper like he couldn't let go even now. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked seconds from passing out.
"Kier—Brock—" Knuckles started, but Kier was already moving, dropping beside him.
"Brock. Hey. Stay with me." Kier grabbed his shoulder, shook gently. Brock's eyes opened, unfocused. "You did it, man. She's breathing. But you gotta stay awake."
Brock's gaze drifted past Kier to Harper, still curled on her side, still coughing. His hand twitched toward her but he couldn't lift it. His lips moved but no sound came out.
Mason finally moved, dropping to his knees beside Harper. His hand hovered over her shoulder, shaking, like he was afraid to touch her. "Harper—God, Harper, I'm sorry—I didn't see him, I—"
She didn't respond. Just kept coughing, kept shaking, one hand pressed to her ribs like every breath hurt.
The floodlights buzzed overhead. The river roared on, indifferent, black and endless. Wind cut through the open stretch of shore, carrying the smell of ice and diesel from the yard beyond.
For a long moment, none of them moved. The only sounds were Harper's wet, gasping breaths and the water still dripping from all of them, pooling dark on the stones.
Knuckles exhaled slowly, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That's it," he murmured, voice rough. "That's fucking it. You're both out."
Harper's coughing finally eased, her breaths still ragged but steadier now, each one less like drowning. Her eyes were closed, body still trembling violently under Kier's jacket, but her hand had stopped clawing at the stones. She was here. Alive.
Brock's eyes cracked open at the sound of Knuckles' voice. His gaze found Harper first—still breathing, still fighting the cold—and something in his expression softened. His hand twitched toward her again, fingers brushing her sleeve before his strength gave out.
"Stay awake, Brock," Kier said firmly, hand on his shoulder. "We're getting you both out of here. Just stay with us."
Brock's jaw worked, trying to form words, but all that came out was a rough exhale. His eyes stayed on Harper for another beat, then finally closed.
"Mason," Knuckles snapped, rising to his feet. "Get Onyx. Bring the sedan as close to the breakwall as you can—service road, access gate, I don't care. We need to load them and get the hell out of here. Move."
Mason nodded once, already scrambling up the embankment, boots sending pebbles scattering as he climbed.
Knuckles looked down at Harper and Brock—both soaked, both shaking, both alive against every odd the river had thrown at them. The shipment could wait. The Syndicate could wait. Right now, getting them warm was the only thing that mattered.
"Kier, help me get them up. We're not losing them to hypothermia after all that."
Kier nodded, already moving to Harper. He crouched beside her, slipping one arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. "I've got you, Harper. Just hold on."
She didn't answer—couldn't—but her eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. Her head lolled against his chest as he lifted her, her body dead weight in his arms, limbs hanging loose. She was still shaking, violent tremors running through her, her breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps against his shoulder.
"Easy," Kier murmured, adjusting his grip as he stood. "We've got you."
Knuckles crouched beside Brock, gripped his arm—solid, anchoring. "Come on, boss. On your feet."
Brock's eyes opened, just slits, his gaze unfocused. His jaw worked but nothing came out except a rough exhale. Knuckles hauled him upright, Brock's weight sagging immediately against him, legs barely holding. His whole body shook, uncontrollable, his arm coming up instinctively to brace against Knuckles' shoulder.
"One foot in front of the other," Knuckles said firmly, shifting his grip to lock Brock's arm across his shoulders, his other hand clamped tight around Brock's ribs to keep him upright. "Just stay with me."
Brock's boots scraped stone, his steps uneven and dragging, but he moved. Knuckles took most of his weight, half-carrying him as they started up the embankment.
Together—Kier carrying Harper, Knuckles steadying Brock—they started toward the breakwall access point, moving as fast as the weight and the cold would allow.
─•────
The first thing Harper felt was heat.
Not comfort. Not warmth. Heat—pressing against her face, her chest, suffocating and foreign. Her body rejected it on instinct, muscles seizing, lungs pulling shallow and raw. She couldn't tell if she was breathing or drowning. The line between the two had blurred somewhere in the black.
Then—sensation. Weight. Layers upon layers pressing down on her, trapping her limbs. Panic spiked, sharp and immediate. She tried to move, tried to push up, but her arms wouldn't answer. They were heavy, numb, pinned under something. Her chest hitched, a broken gasp scraping up her throat that came out wet and ragged.
"Easy—easy, Harper." A voice, low and close, cut through the haze. "You're okay. You're out. Just breathe."
She tried. God, she tried. But each breath felt like dragging glass through her throat, her ribs—already bruised from Gunner's boot—screaming with every expansion. Her eyes cracked open, vision swimming, everything blurred and orange. Fire. She was staring at fire, the flames too close, too bright, heat licking her face until her skin felt tight.
She jerked back—or tried to. Her body barely shifted, tangled in the blankets, her limbs uncoordinated and weak. A sound tore from her throat, rough and broken.
"You're safe," the voice said again, steady and grounding. "You're at the cabin. The fire's keeping you warm. You're not in the water anymore."
Slowly—so slowly—the panic began to ebb. The world started to take shape.
She was on the floor. Wooden boards beneath her, radiating warmth. A hearth in front of her, fire burning low but steady, coals glowing red at the center. The air smelled like smoke and wet wool and something stronger—kerosene, maybe, or damp leather.
She was buried under blankets—too many to count, heavy and suffocating. Her clothes were gone, replaced by something dry and oversized that hung loose on her frame. Her skin felt raw, hypersensitive, every nerve ending firing wrong.
And beside her—behind her, she realized as her awareness sharpened—Brock.
She couldn't see him without turning, but she could feel him there. Close. The slight shift of blankets when he breathed. The faint warmth radiating from his body beneath the layers.
A shape moved in her peripheral vision. Harper's head turned—slow, heavy—and she found Knuckles sitting a few feet back from the hearth, positioned at an angle where he could watch both of them. He was slumped in a chair dragged close to the fire, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped loose between them. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but when they met hers, something shifted—relief, stark and unguarded.
"Hey," he said quietly. "There you are."
Harper tried to speak. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a rasping wheeze. Her throat felt shredded, every swallow like dragging sandpaper down her windpipe.
Knuckles was already moving, rising from the chair. He crossed the short distance and crouched beside her, reaching for a tin mug that sat near the hearth, steam curling from its rim. "Don't try to talk yet," he said. "Your throat's gonna be raw for a while."
He slipped one hand behind her shoulders, helping ease her up slightly, and brought the mug to her lips. The water was warm, almost hot, tasting faintly of smoke and metal. She managed two small sips before her stomach lurched and she had to turn her head away.
"That's okay," Knuckles murmured, lowering her back down and setting the mug aside. "You're doing good."
Harper's gaze drifted past him, trying to crane her neck enough to see behind her. Knuckles caught the movement.
"He's right there," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Still out. Breathing steady."
She wanted to see him. Needed to. But her body wouldn't cooperate, neck too stiff, head too heavy to turn. The effort left her breath hitching, ribs screaming their protest.
Knuckles must've seen the strain on her face. "Hang on," he murmured, his voice soft but sure. He slid one hand beneath her shoulder, the other under the blankets at her hip, careful and unhurried. "Easy now."
He helped her roll, slow and deliberate, the motion sending a flare of pain through her ribs and down her spine. She sucked in a shaky breath, jaw clenched, and then she was facing him—Brock—only a few inches away.
He lay on his side, facing her, half-buried under the same mountain of blankets. His face was slack in sleep, the color still not fully back, firelight painting his skin in flickers of gold and red. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. The sight of it—of him breathing—anchored something inside her that had been floating loose since the river.
Knuckles adjusted the blanket back over her shoulder before settling onto his heels again. "He's out cold," he said quietly. "Didn't let himself crash until you were breathing on your own. Fought it until he couldn't anymore."
Harper's chest constricted. Fragments of memory flickered through the fog—cold, darkness, weight dragging her down, arms locked around her, pulling, pulling—
Her throat worked. She tried to swallow, failed, tried again. The words came out barely audible, fractured. "He—went in—"
"Yeah." Knuckles' jaw tightened slightly. "The second Mason yelled your name, Brock was over the wall. Didn't hesitate. Just went." He paused, eyes holding hers. "Pulled you out of that river half-drowned himself. You both nearly didn't make it."
She wanted to ask more. Wanted to know how long she'd been under, how he'd found her, what happened to Gunner. But her body was betraying her, exhaustion pulling at her like a second current.
Her eyes drifted closed.
"Hey." Knuckles' voice, gentle but insistent. "Stay with me a little longer. I need to make sure you're tracking."
She forced her eyes open, barely slits. Everything felt heavy—her eyelids, her limbs, her lungs.
"You remember what happened?" he asked.
She managed a small nod. The motion made her head swim, but the memories were there—hazy, fragmented, but there. Gunner. The breakwall. The fall. The cold.
"You know where you are?"
Her lips moved, trying to form words. "Cabin," she rasped, the sound barely more than breath.
Knuckles exhaled, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. Cabin. Kier's in the other room, Mason's on the couch, Onyx has perimeter. You're safe."
Safe. The word felt foreign. Impossible. But the heat of the fire was real. The weight of the blankets. Knuckles' steady presence. Brock breathing behind her.
"You scared the shit out of us," Knuckles added, voice dropping lower. "Don't do that again."
Harper's lips twitched—an attempt at something that might have been a smile, or an apology, but her face wouldn't cooperate. Her eyes wanted to close again, exhaustion dragging her down.
Knuckles watched her for a long moment, then rose and returned to the chair, settling back into his watch position by the hearth. "Get some rest," he said quietly. "Both of you. I'm right here."
She blinked slow, half-awake, gaze fixed on Brock's face in the flicker of the firelight. He looked impossibly still, his breath a slow rhythm she could almost feel. The space between them felt too wide; the air itself seemed cold there.
She shifted, a small, uncertain motion under the weight of the blankets, sliding an inch closer until her forehead brushed his. The contact was faint, but it steadied her—the warmth of him, the quiet proof of his heartbeat against the silence.
The fire cracked behind her, heat pulsing along her back. She matched her breath to his, let the rhythm carry her.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, the darkness came for her again—not the river's pull this time, but something softer, warmer, still.
Sleep.