The doors slam with a sound that vibrates through my bones, stone sealing against chaos while the packhouse surges into motion around us, and for one sharp heartbeat everything feels too loud and too close at the same time. Adam’s grip on my wrist is firm and grounding, not dragging but directing, and I let him move me because this is not the moment to argue about positioning or pride.
“Down the east corridor,” Justin calls, voice cutting cleanly through the rising noise. “Noncombatants first.”
“I’m not a noncombatant,” I say automatically, the words leaving my mouth on instinct.
Adam does not slow. “You’re recovering,” he replies, and there is no room for debate in his tone. “You fight when you’re cleared.”
The bond hums hard and fast beneath my ribs, not pulling me toward him or the
