"Can’t prove it till we catch him." I cup her cheek with my clean hand. "And we will."
Liv murmurs, eyes never leaving the black-slick wound. "Could the bond help?”
“Perhaps. If you push the heat just right… it could jumpstart cellular repair. Like cauterizing from the inside."
She presses her palm over mine, heat sliding into my marrow—her brand answering mine, fire knitting over the wound.
Parsing instinct and memory into strategy, I feel the warmth deepen, precise and deliberate, as if she’s tuning the frequency of her flame. The sigil flares, answering her command. I grit my teeth as heat threads through muscle and marrow, it singes every poisoned molecule like it’s got a death warrant.
The pain is white-hot. Not agony—purpose. Her purpose. Mine.
And for the first time since the bullet hit, I believe I might survive. It burns like penance, but the bleeding slows.
"Don’t you dare die before I yell at you," she whispers, voice cracking.
My laugh shreds out, half-pain, half-desire. "You love the drama."
"I love the dragon." Her eyes soften, then harden to tempered steel. "And now, he's gone and gotten himself wounded. Get on your feet, dragon-man, we've got bad guys to hunt."
Down below, the convoy engines howl, headlights spearing north toward the canyon’s black throat. Liv squints against the glare, then turns to me, voice sharp with purpose. "We can’t chase them like this. We’ll never catch up if they scatter in the ridges."
I nod once, every breath a furnace blast under my ribs. "Leap-frog pursuit. You take the ground route with the rookies, funnel them through the S-turn in Sector Bravo. I’ll hit them from above, track convoy splits, and signal intercepts."
She bites her lip, calculating fast. "Ramirez and Jo are already deployed south ridge. I’ll pull them to flank through Dry River Gulch—cut off their water support and pinch the rear."
I clench my jaw, steadying as she grabs the med pack off her belt and shoves it into my hand.
Her eyes lock onto mine. "Shift if you can. Stay airborne as long as possible. Keep the pressure on. I can use the rookies to bring them into the net."
The final headlights vanish into canyon shadow. I bare my teeth. "Then let’s bring them down."
Together, we move—Liv sprinting for the rookies, barking orders; me shifting—Liv's instincts about cauterizing the wound must have been right—and vaulting into the night. My vision narrows to the glow on the horizon, to the movement of taillightsagainst canyon walls. Liv’s fire still lingers inside me, its rhythm echoing my own—steady, fused, undeniable.
I launch into the pre-dawn dark with a growl that flattens the brush below. Wings snap wide—cobalt stretched and gleaming—as I surge skyward with brutal force. The air claps in my wake, thunder without a storm, the desert falling away beneath me.
Pain flares beneath my ribs—the poison threading through my system. I grit my teeth, shove the burn behind a wall of ice, and scan the hooded cameras mounted on the bunker corners. They pan, pause, then pan again. Infrared only. Good. That tech can’t read a dragon—just a heat bloom too massive to make sense of.
Each gust slices across the wound, the heat sharper now. Flying like this is madness. I don’t care. I am vengeance—sleek, relentless—riding fire and fury through charged skies. The wind howls past.
One goal. One target.
Greer won’t see the flame until it’s already too late. He won’t know what hit him. My wings flare wider as I climb into the sky with a roar. Diesel fumes sting the back of my throat, mingling with dust kicked up in their wake—thick, choking, and laced with urgency. Greer thinks he’s ahead.
He has no idea what’s coming for him. Ignis believes they’ve slipped away. They haven’t.
My breath rasps, a tremor hitching in my chest as the burn flares again—deeper this time, dragging a jagged edge across my ribs.
CHAPTER 14
LIV
The air brushes my cheeks with unnatural heat—dry, vibrating faintly, like the whole canyon's holding its breath. I blink against a shimmer of distortion, vision momentarily warped by invisible waves that ripple the horizon.
The canyon drill should feel routine—hose lays, spot-fire knock-downs, rookies sweating in neat little pairs—but the air tastes electric, braided with diesel and dread. Somewhere behind me, pumps stutter like metal lungs, and the faint tang of scorched steel clings to the back of my throat.
Boots scuff near my flank, and I register the distant, steady thump of pressure valves cycling. It's not just heat—it's warning. Something is off. The rookies sense it too. Around me, the line buzzes with barely restrained nerves—rookies hunched but alert, fingers twitching on couplings, boots grinding into grit. The rhythmic chuff of water slapping canvas hoses blends with the dry shuffle of movement. Canyon walls magnify every noise: clipped commands, static-laced radio chatter, even the distant screech of a hawk tracing slow circles overhead. Dust motes float like ash in angled sun, each one catching gold light before vanishing.
A bead of sweat slides into my collar. Somewhere behind me, a hose coupling clicks, followed by the faint hiss of repressurizing line. The hawk overhead lets out a shrill cry, and for just a moment, everything feels suspended—poised on the knife-edge before it breaks.
