Concrete rasped against Harper's teeth when she tried to breathe. Heat pulsed under her cheek like the floor itself was alive, then went cold, then back again—she couldn't tell if it was real or just the blood hammering in her skull. The silence was wrong, smothering, her ears stuffed with thick cotton, pressure crushing her skull until light cracked in bursts behind her closed eyes. Smoke filled her mouth, bitter, metallic, heavy enough to choke, but her body refused the cough; something pinned her flat, sprawled over her back, pressing her ribs into the slab until she couldn't tell where she ended and the wreckage began. She shifted and splinters tore at her palm, the ground swaying, threatening to roll her sideways and drop her into fire.
Her eyes fluttered open into blur. The world slid and swam, colors bleeding together, haze smearing every edge until nothing stayed still. Shapes leaned too close and then pulled away again, unsteady in her vision. One fixed in front of her—black, blocky, so near she could have bitten it if her jaw worked. She blinked blood from her lashes, once, twice, again. It wavered and steadied. A boot. Leather streaked with ash, firelight twitching across it in broken smears, orange reflection stuttering, warped the way it looked underwater. For a moment she couldn't be sure if it was real or just her brain painting pictures against the dark.
She tried to roll, to twist onto her side, but the weight crushed her flat, ribs grinding into the concrete until her breath came in stutters. Every push from her arms faltered, strength bleeding out before she could shift more than an inch. Pain sparked through her chest, down her shoulder, her body refusing the effort. Smoke stung her eyes as she lifted her head enough to see across the aisle. Flames licked up a stack of pallets, orange tongues catching fast, each snap and crack pulling the fire higher. Heat rolled toward her in waves, eating the air, tightening the space until it felt like the whole warehouse meant to swallow her whole.
A cough cut through, ragged and close. Then a voice—shredded, warped—her ears ringing too hard to catch the words. The weight across her back shifted, pressed harder for a moment, then slid away, leaving her chest free to drag in a searing breath.
She reached forward on instinct, hand closing around a boot. Leather slick with ash met her fingers, and she clung, dragging herself forward inch by inch. The shape was heavy, unmoving. She pulled higher, her hand climbing rough fabric, then webbing, then the slope of a vest. Her vision steadied just enough to show her the face slack above her hand. Vale. Blood sheeted from his temple, his chest barely moving under her palm.
Her mouth worked. She tried to say his name. Nothing came—only a rasp. Her throat seized, smoke biting harder, the sound dying in her chest.
Her strength buckled. She rolled onto her side, half over him, cheek pressing against the heat of his vest. The weight of her own body felt foreign, too heavy, bones trembling under her skin. Vale didn't stir. His breath was there—thin, shallow—but his face stayed slack, blood seeping dark trails across his temple.
Her vision swam, flames and shadows blurring together, the floor bucking under her like a bad tide while heat clawed at her back. She clung where she was, body pressed against his, and fought to keep her eyes open as the warehouse burned louder around them.
Her consciousness slipped, the roar of the fire dropping to a dull hush. She felt herself sliding under, weightless, ready to let go—until the hush cracked. Shouting. Boots hammering closer, cutting through the ringing in her ears. Her eyes snapped open. Instinct shoved her off Vale's chest, a weak roll that left her flat on the floor beside him just as two figures skidded through the smoke.
One pushed past in a blur, moving deeper into the haze. The other dropped beside them—Onyx, mask streaked black, eyes finding hers first, registering she was awake, then shifting to Vale. His hands went straight to him, checking the slack face, the shallow drag of breath, the blood running down his temple. Harper lay where she'd rolled, body trembling, vision swimming as she watched Onyx work while the fire cracked higher across the aisle.
Onyx's voice came next, low and urgent, but her ears rang too hard to catch the words. The sound pressed in her skull, more pulse than speech, broken by static she couldn't place. Then movement—Onyx bracing, hauling Vale up under the arms, dragging him across the floor toward the glow bleeding through the smoke. She tried to follow with her eyes, vision slipping, until something bumped hard against her side.
Another shape forced past—Kier, shoulders bowed, Mason's limp weight hooked under him, boots leaving a streak through the ash. Both of them moving the same way, both pulled toward the light, leaving her flat on the floor with the fire crawling higher at her back.
Heat rolled into the space they'd left, crackling fire throwing light across her peripheral while smoke pressed her flat. For a breath she thought they'd all gone—that she'd been left there to burn with the wreckage. The thought hollowed her, an emptiness cutting straight through the burn chewing the pallets across the aisle.
Something shifted close. A groan, low and broken. Then the scrape of gear against concrete, slow and heavy. She tried to lift her head, but her vision swam, her ears still screaming, the sounds folding in on themselves until she couldn't tell if they were real.
Boots slammed through the haze, voices cutting above the roar. Shapes drove into the aisle, smoke tearing around them. For a moment she thought she was dreaming—then she knew: someone had come.
Nolan hit the breach with smoke in his teeth, fire at his shoulders. Half the warehouse was gone—roof folded in on the far side, racks sagged and burning, steel whining, ready to shear loose any second. Cole moved tight at his flank, Gunner just behind, Jensen bringing up the rear. Heat rolled off the racks, sparks raining in sheets.
They cleared the choke and spotted them fast. Harper was down on her stomach near the aisle, arms trembling as if she'd tried to crawl and run out of strength. Brock lay just behind, slumped heavy on his side, chest dragging for air. Price was there with him, one knee braced on the floor, rifle hanging loose in his hand, head bowed under the weight of smoke but still conscious. All three of them gutted, smoke-drunk and half-crushed, the fire crowding in to finish the job if they didn't move now.
They didn't pause. Jensen dropped straight to Harper, crouching low to hook an arm under her shoulder and get her up. Cole and Nolan went for Brock together, bracing under his arms, heaving his weight between them. Brock groaned, head lolling, boots dragging as they hauled him clear of the heat. Gunner closed on Price, slipping a shoulder under his and dragging him upright, keeping the rifle from clattering out of his hand.
Harper's knees buckled the moment they took weight, legs shaking too hard to hold her. She tried again, dragging one foot forward, then another, but the ground tilted under her and the firelight spun. She stumbled against Jensen, breath tearing, body refusing. Without a word he shifted, braced, then lifted her outright—an arm hooking behind her knees, the other catching her back, hauling her off the ground like she weighed nothing. Her head sagged against his vest, the rough fabric scraping her cheek with every step. She wanted to protest, to tell him she could walk, but smoke filled her mouth instead, and all she could do was cling weakly to his harness as he carried her through the haze.
Every step felt stolen. Brock's boots scraped the floor, knees threatening to fold, shoulders locked in the vise of two hard grips—Cole on one side, Nolan on the other, hauling him whether his body wanted it or not. Heat gnawed at his face, smoke clawed his throat raw, every breath burning deeper than the last.
The aisle stretched forever, racks swaying in the glow, sparks hissing down like rain. His head sagged forward, vision cutting in and out, until the concrete blurred to streaks under his feet. Cole's voice snapped in his ear—he couldn't make out the words, only the drive in them, keeping him upright. Nolan's grip clamped tighter whenever his weight slipped, forcing another step.
Then the heat broke. One stride, then another, and the smoke tore open into wet night air. Rain-slick concrete spread wide, puddles black with ash, floodlights glaring against the haze. His chest heaved, lungs scraping as he forced air down.
Engines throbbed ahead, headlights cutting through the murk. A line of Syndicate SUVs idled with doors flung wide, men moving between them, weapons ready, eyes snapping to the team as they staggered out. Brock's vision swam, but he saw the shapes—dark steel, open doors, hands waving them in. The convoy waited, engines growling low, ready to swallow whoever was still standing.
The yard tilted under him again as Nolan and Cole steered him toward a Suburban with its hatch thrown wide, exhaust curling pale in the rain. Jensen waited at the bumper, stepping back to clear space, the inside a blur of shadow and light.
They hauled him up, their grip the only thing keeping his legs from folding. His knees hit the lip and both men rode the drop with him, guiding his weight forward onto the rubber mat. Pain jolted up his legs as he crashed down, breath ripping shallow from his chest. Nolan's hand stayed on his vest long enough to steady him, then let go. He dragged himself further in, elbows slipping, lungs burning. And then he saw her—curled against the side panel of the cargo bay, knees drawn tight, face hidden in the crook of her arm.
Harper.
The name barely flickered before his body lurched. His hand caught her boot, then slid higher to her calf, dragging him forward in jerks. Inch by inch, until his arms shook too hard to hold. She was too still, too light, but warm beneath his grip. He tried to pull higher, but the strength went out of him all at once. His chest buckled and he sagged, head falling into the hollow between her hip and ribs. Breath scalded his throat, his face pressed into her side. And there it was—faint but steady—the rise and fall under his cheek. She was alive.
She shifted under him, weak but certain, her body curling tighter around the weight pressed to her side. A thin sound broke from her throat, raw and torn, and her hand twitched against the mat before sliding, catching clumsy at his shoulder. Her fingers curled there, loose but intentional, holding on. She hovered somewhere under consciousness, unsteady, but still reaching for him. His head stayed buried against the hollow of her hip, the warmth of her arm falling across him in a loose fold. The rise of her ribs stuttered against his cheek, shallow but alive—and in that faltering movement, he knew she'd felt him, knew she wouldn't let him go.
** ** **
The double doors banged wide, the med bay flooding with boots, smoke, and the stench of burned gear. Graves was already waiting, gloves on, her team in place. Mason and Vale came first, sprawled on gurneys shoved through the doors. Onyx and Kier muscled them in despite their own cuts and burns, flanking the wheels while Matteo and Baines caught the frames, guiding the metal straight to the tables. Mason's gear still smoked as they stripped it, Vale's chest stuttering shallow under the lights.
Jensen followed with Harper in his arms, her body slack against his vest, streaked black with ash. He carried her to a side bed and lowered her carefully onto the sheets, then stayed planted at her side, one hand braced on the rail. Nolan and Cole brought Brock in behind him, hauling his weight between them toward an open cot. Both men stayed close, hands clamped on his shoulders to keep him steady as the med team cleared space. Gunner closed the line with Price leaning heavy into him, guiding him to a bench at the far wall, his breath coming ragged.
The bay swallowed them in seconds, voices overlapping, machines chirping awake. Graves pressed fingers to Vale's throat, her voice cutting above the din. "Airway kit at hand. Matteo, Sam, lines in. Push fluids slow." Blood streaked his temple, pulse weak but there.
Mason hit the next table coughing wet as Deke cut away what was left of his vest. His chest rose uneven, ribs shifting under Graves' hand when she moved across. "Ribs are gone on one side," Deke muttered. "Collapsed, maybe."
"Then don't let it get worse," Graves snapped. "Baines—oxygen, mask. Keep him upright. TXA primed but hold until pressure's stable." She peeled scorched fabric from his shoulder, checked the wound beneath, and nodded once. Ugly but manageable.
"Line in," Matteo called, fluids dripping clear into Vale's arm. His pulse ticked faint against Graves' fingertips as she moved between tables, Mason's mask hissing, Baines holding the seal steady while Deke braced for compressions if needed.
"Good," Graves said, her voice carrying over the noise. "Keep them breathing. Keep them steady. We can fix the rest."
The cot rocked under Brock as they set him down, Nolan's grip still clamped on his shoulder, Cole steadying at his other side. Brock tried to lift his head, but the effort sent his vision swimming, the lights above blurring into white streaks. The air here was clean but harsh, chemical bite catching in his throat after the smoke. Voices rattled off around him—orders he couldn't catch, scissors snapping, the hiss of oxygen close—but all he felt was the weight of their hands, keeping him anchored, keeping him upright when his body wanted to slip sideways.
"Stay with it," Nolan said, voice low but firm, the same way he barked at recruits who dropped in the yard. His hand tightened, holding Brock square on the mattress.
"You're in," Cole added, leaning close so he could hear over the chaos. "You made it out. Just hang on."
The words cut through the noise better than the machines or the orders snapping across the room. Brock forced a breath in, felt the pressure of their hands steadying him, and let his head sag back against the cot. "Who… who'd we lose?"
Nolan's jaw worked once before he answered. "Besides Ryker and Briggs—Tanner, Miles, Corso. That's it. Everyone else made it out. Busted up, but alive." His grip tightened when Brock's eyes slipped closed. "You hear me? That's it."
Brock swallowed hard, lungs stuttering. "Should've—got them clear… before…"
"Enough," Nolan cut him off, voice low and iron. "I set the charges. I made the call. You kept the line standing long enough to pull the rest. Don't put that on yourself." Cole's hand pressed firmer into his arm, silent, steadying.
The noise around them blurred into metal and voices, but their weight stayed, pinning him to the cot, keeping him from slipping under.
Brock dragged his eyes open, lids heavy as lead. The glare above blurred, then steadied enough to pull the room into shape. A bed stood close—Harper's. She was curled on her side, knees drawn, the line of her back rising and falling shallow but steady. Jensen crouched at her front, one arm braced on the rail, head bent close as if keeping watch.
Nolan followed his line of sight. "She's fine," he said, steady and sure. "Banged up, smoke-drunk, same as you. No worse."
Relief surged through him, his chest easing in a way no doctor had managed yet.
Heat pooled under Harper's skin as she tried to shift, and a groan tore loose, rough and involuntary. Every muscle screamed, her chest tight, head pounding in rhythm with the lights above. A hand settled gentle at her shoulder—Jensen, crouched close, his voice low enough to cut through the din.
"Easy. You're good. If they're not on you yet, it means you're not the worst off." His grip steadied her when she tried to curl tighter, grounding her against the tremor running through her body. "Couple bruises, smoke in your lungs—you'll walk out of here. Let them fix the others first."
The words seeped through the haze, enough to anchor her, enough to remind her she was still here.
Harper chewed on them through the ringing in her ears. Forced them into place. Not the worst off. If she wasn't the one surrounded, then—
Her throat rasped when she tried to speak, the word raw. "Vale?"
Jensen's head turned, eyes cutting past her toward the cluster at the far tables where Graves and her team bent over the others. "Rough," he said, voice pitched calm, steady. "Him and Mason both. But they're in it. Graves has them. They'll be okay."
The tension in her chest didn't vanish, but it loosened enough to let her breathe, shallow and slow, against the ache that crawled her ribs. Shapes shifted at the edge of her vision. On the next bed over, Brock lay on his back, shoulders pinned by Nolan and Cole, chest lifting in rough, shallow pulls under the lights. Alive. Still here.
Harper shifted, trying to turn her head enough to see behind her, but the motion sent a jolt through her ribs and stole what breath she had. The ceiling spun and her arm twitched useless against the sheets. Jensen's hand steadied her before she could slip further into the tilt.
The tightness bled out of her muscles at his words, leaving only the ache, dull and steady. She sank back into the cot, every movement trembling, each breath dragging the soreness through her ribs—but the panic ebbed. Jensen's hand stayed firm at her shoulder, steady and warm, anchoring her against the noise of the bay. Exhaustion tugged at her, heavy and insistent, and at last she let her eyes fall shut.
** ** **
The steady beep pulled him up out of the dark, thin and insistent, like it had been there forever waiting on him to notice. Brock's eyes slit open, lids heavy as stone. The low light still stabbed at them, blurred and sterile, until the shapes steadied—pale walls, rails bracketing his sides, a monitor glowing faint at his shoulder. Not his room. Not his bed.
He shifted and the cot told him what his brain hadn't caught yet—narrow, stiff, sheets that smelled of bleach instead of shampoo. His chest pulled tight when he breathed, ribs aching deep, lungs raw from everything he'd dragged through them. A muscle jumped in his thigh where the blast had slammed him down. Everything felt strange, clean and hollow after the warehouse.
The med bay. They'd kept him overnight.
He lay still for a while, letting the beeping and the sterile hum close in, his body heavy against the cot. Other beds lined the row, monitors pulsing soft in the dim, shadows slumped under blankets he didn't try to focus on. Then the thought cut through—Harper.
He forced himself upright, pain lancing his side with every inch. The breath he caught was jagged, raw, but he pushed past it, eyes searching the near cots until they landed on her. Not far—just a few feet, another bed—but she looked miles away. A small figure curled tight beneath a blanket drawn up over her head, only the outline of her body showing—hunched shoulders, the bowed line of her back, every inch of her turned inward, braced against the room.
The sight of her like that split him clean. It snapped him straight back to those first weeks after he'd hauled her in, when she was still his prisoner and an enemy he barely tolerated. He used to find her on the concrete in that box they called a cell, curled into herself under a threadbare blanket, hiding her face and shoulders until she barely read as a person at all—just a bundle on the floor He'd stood over her and written it off as pathetic then—weak, useless, a habit she should've broken if she wanted to last in Syndicate hands.
Even after he hauled her out of that cell it didn't stop. In the spare room bed she still vanished under the covers, blanket hauled up over her head, shoulders caved in, braced for walls that weren't there anymore. The first time she came to his bed, shaken out of sleep and standing in his doorway, she'd climbed in and curled on top of the blankets instead, hovering at the edge of his space like she didn't trust the right to share it. It shifted only after they started sharing more than sleep. Somewhere in the tangle of those nights the old habit fell away; she ended up tucked against his chest or pressed along his side, blankets just warmth and weight, her body loose and unguarded in his arms.
And now here she was again, folded small beneath a hospital blanket, the outline of someone left to fend for herself. He knew exactly what he was looking at—her body throwing up old defenses, shielding itself when it didn't believe anyone else would. Watching her slip back into that shape, after everything it had taken to unlearn it, broke something quiet and vital in him.
The monitor at his shoulder nagged with every tone, tethering him, until he yanked the clip free. The alarm bleated useless behind him as he swung his legs down. Bare feet hit the cold floor and pain tore through his chest, the room pitching sideways with the effort, but he refused to stop. One unsteady step, then another. Each breath clawed at him, but the pull toward her was stronger.
He reached her bed and dropped into a crouch, knees biting against the frame. His hand found the edge of the blanket she'd hidden under, and he drew it back slow, careful, handling it with glass-fragile care. "Hey," he said, rough and quiet, gravel breaking in his throat.
She stirred, lashes fluttering, eyes fogged. For a moment she looked lost, her gaze sliding past him. Then it caught, finding his, and something shifted—recognition pulling her back from the dark, softening the confusion into something fragile and raw.
Her eyes filled, wide and bright, the first tear sliding free before she could stop it. His chest clenched, the physical ache blotted out by the sight of her breaking.
"Shh," he murmured, leaning closer, both hands lifting to frame her face. His thumbs brushed the wet from her skin even as more followed, his touch steady against the tremor in her jaw. "It's okay. We got out."
Her breath hitched, a small, shaking sound slipping free. She turned into his palms, pressing her cheek against the roughness of his hand. "Brock…" The whisper frayed on her lips, but it was enough to split him open.
He bent until his forehead rested against hers, eyes closing, his voice low and sure in the narrow space between them. "I've got you. I'm not letting go."
Her fingers lifted from under the blanket, trembling as they found his wrists and wrapped weakly around them, holding him there with a fragile, stubborn grip. His chest protested the lean, his breath unsteady against her skin, but he didn't ease back.
For a moment there was nothing but the hum of the machines and the ragged scrape of their lungs, the world narrowed to the warmth between their mouths. Then she tilted into him, closing the last inch, and his lips found hers—soft, broken, but desperate with everything they'd just clawed through.
The kiss hurt, pain flaring with every fraction of movement, but he didn't care. She was alive, warm in his hands, and that was all that mattered.
** ** **
Two days after the blast, the med bay had gone quiet. Morning light slanted through the blinds, pale against the antiseptic gleam, the chaos of triage replaced by the steady tick of monitors and the soft drip of IVs.
Mason lay in the bed nearest the wall, chest bound tight in white wraps, oxygen tubing looped beneath his nose. His breaths came shallow but even, his eyes open now, tracking the room with a weary steadiness. Across the aisle, Vale rested propped against pillows, stitches laddering his temple, a line feeding clear fluid into his arm. His color was slow to return, but he was awake, gaze lifting each time the door shifted.
The handle clicked again, the door easing open, and both men looked up. Brock stepped through first, moving stiff, his shirt pulling at the bruises that banded his ribs. Harper followed close behind, her turtleneck sleeves tugged low, hair tied back, the last traces of smoke scrubbed from her skin. Neither of them carried the weight of monitors or rails anymore—just the ache in their bodies and the effort it took to walk steady as they crossed the room.
Vale's gaze caught on Harper as soon as she entered. For a moment he only stared, eyes widening over the line at his arm, then the corners of his mouth tugged into something faint but real.
Her face cracked into a grin despite the stiffness, and she crossed to his bedside in quick, careful steps, reaching for the rail like she needed to feel he was solid.
Brock veered the other way, toward Mason's cot. The oxygen hissed at his side, chest rising shallow under the wraps, but his eyes were open and fixed on him. Brock pulled a chair close and sat heavy, one forearm braced across his knee as he met Mason's look.
Harper reached the rail, then let her hand drop and slid onto the edge of the bed by Vale's hip. The mattress dipped under her weight, her knees angled toward him, the IV line swaying faintly between them.
"How are you doing?" she asked, voice light but threaded with something tighter underneath.
Vale huffed, the sound tugging at his stitches, though the grin that followed made it clear he didn't care. "Aside from the hole in my head and the part where I nearly bled out on a warehouse floor? Never better."
The dry bite of it pulled a laugh out of her before she could stop it. She shook her head, leaning a little closer. "Look on the bright side—you get a mini vacation from all the annoying jobs until you heal."
Vale snorted, then winced as it tugged at his stitches. "Some vacation," he muttered, though the grin held. "If this is your idea of time off, remind me to never let you plan a holiday."
Her laugh came again, softer this time, and it faded as she reached to touch his arm, careful of the IV line. Her fingers lingered there, her voice dropping low. "Thank you," she said, steady but quiet. "For having my back out there. For getting us down off that catwalk." Her thumb brushed lightly against the blanket, needing the contact to carry the words. "Thank you."
Vale's grin eased, his gaze holding hers. "We all look out for each other," he told her, the humor still in his voice but tempered by something steadier. "I know you'd do the same."
A shadow fell across them and Harper glanced up to see Brock standing at the foot of the bed, one hand braced at his side. He dipped his head toward Vale. "Hell of a fight you gave," he said, voice low but carrying weight. "Glad you're still here."
Vale managed a half-smile, weary but real. "Takes more than a warehouse falling on me." His eyes flicked between the two of them, then settled back on Brock. "You keep her out of trouble, yeah?"
Brock's gaze slid to Harper, softer now. "You ready to go home?"
She nodded, fingers giving Vale's arm a final squeeze before she pushed herself up from the mattress. Crossing the aisle, she stopped by Mason's cot, her hand brushing the rail. "You did good," she told him, voice warm. "Get some rest. We'll be back to bother you soon."
Mason's lips curved faintly under the oxygen tubing, his eyes half-lidded but awake enough to hold hers.
Harper straightened, stepping back toward Brock. Together they turned for the door, leaving the steady rhythm of monitors behind them.
The hallway outside the med bay felt hushed, the polished floors echoing softly under their boots. The faint antiseptic tang lingered, but it was muted by the scent of fresh coffee drifting from somewhere further down. Harper walked close at Brock's side, their steps slow, both of them still moving as if the blast were riding under their ribs.
They reached the elevator and the doors parted with a muted chime. Inside, the space was still and dim, their reflections blurred across the steel walls. Brock leaned back against the rail, one hand pressed lightly to his side, his gaze tipping down to her. She shifted closer without a word, shoulder brushing his arm as the lift hummed upward.
When the doors slid open again, the air was different—warmer, quieter, the antiseptic bite replaced by the faint smell of laundry and wood polish. The residential wing stretched ahead, carpet muffling their steps. Brock keyed his door and pushed it open, holding it long enough for her to step through first.
The room greeted them with its familiar weight—dark wood, muted light seeping in at the edges of the window, the air still and untouched. The world outside stayed on the other side of the walls for once. The door clicked shut behind them, and Harper leaned into him, her shoulder pressed to his chest, his arm circling her without thought. The quiet of the room wrapped around them, thick and complete, the first real silence either of them had felt since the blast.
She tilted her face into him, her words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. "I know it's not even lunch yet, but… can we just go to bed?"
Brock's chest shook with a quiet laugh, rough around the edges. He bent, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair, his hand smoothing along her back. "I won't argue with that," he murmured. "Yeah. We can go to bed. And maybe sleep for a week."
Her arms slipped around his waist, her grip tightening, as if she needed the promise as much as the warmth. He exhaled slow, letting the weight of her against him soak through the ache in his side, then tipped his chin toward the hall. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's get you off your feet."