The cab doors burst open, and gunfire erupts. The sound is deafening, metal snapping, shouts tearing the night apart.
I hit the floor instinctively, ears ringing, stomach twisting. I catch glimpses of chaos through the small rear window: figures diving, the glint of metal, men scattering.
Scott screams. His voice cuts through everything—sharp, furious, panicked. And then: a sharp crack. A sudden, horrifying impact.
He goes down. I see it—eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief and rage. Blood blooms across his chest, spreading fast, dark and impossible.
My stomach drops.
Scott, who thought he was untouchable, is on the ground. Shot.
Jeremiah yells, pointing at someone behind us, gun raised, and Levi shoves Trevor, trying to regain control. Dalton freezes for a fraction too long. The truck jerks again, and I press myself into the seat, silent but desperate, praying.
My mind is a storm. Gabe. Boone. Someone has to be coming for me. They have to. I feel it. The way the cab swings, the way the shadows outside shift—it’s them.
The remaining pack scramble, trying to get the truck moving again. Their faces are frantic, sharp with panic now that Scott is down. Fear replaces their arrogance.
I taste it, revel in it just a fraction—I don’t forgive, I just notice.
The doors slam open again. Shouts, boots on dirt, a rush of air. Someone yells my name: “Sadie! Move!”
Gabe. Boone. Relief explodes in my chest, but I don’t move too fast. Not yet. My body is still trembling. My heart is still hammering like it might break ribs.
But I can see him now—Gabe, wild and determined, moving with a purpose that terrifies me and reassures me at the same time. Boone is there too, a wall of strength.
“Cut her ropes!” Boone shouts. Hands grab mine, sharp, firm. I hear the snap as the knots give, and freedom tastes like fire in my lungs. I shove to my feet, wobbling, legs weak, but alive.
The pack tries to resist. Jeremiah swings, but Gabe intercepts, hand catching him mid-strike, twisting him down. Levi lunges at me, and I stumble back, but Boone slams into him with brutal precision.
Trevor makes a move toward the door, and Gabe shoves him aside, his eyes sharp as knives. Dalton hesitates, and that hesitation costs him—he’s thrown to the ground as well.
I watch them fall, one by one. My chest is burning, my lungs screaming, but I can’t look away. Every one of them taken down, every one of their plans shattered.
And Scott… gone.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my hands, my stomach still twisting. He won’t be moving again.
Gabe grabs me then, pulling me against him, strong and relentless. “You’re okay,” he growls, voice rough, and I let myself collapse against him, crying, shaking, but alive.
Boone moves beside us, eyes scanning, making sure the rest are subdued.
“Get her out,” he orders. “Now.”
I don’t even hesitate. I’m moving. I’m running. I’m safe. The fire, the chaos, the fear—it doesn’t matter now. Not as long as I’m here, with him, breathing, alive.
The remaining pack groans from the ground, defeated, groggy, furious. I glance back once, and it feels like the nightmare is finally breaking apart. The dark, twisted plan that dragged me through terror is unraveling in front of my eyes.
And I know this: we survived. We’re together. And no one—no one—will ever take me like that again.
CHAPTER 43
Shepard
The first thing I notice is the white. Blinding, sterile, endless white. My head is heavy, my thoughts thick, and every movement sends jolts of pain shooting through me.
I try to open my eyes fully, and the world tilts—a ceiling, a soft hum of machines, the smell of antiseptic and something sharp, metallic. My body feels foreign.
“Shepard?”
