A helicopter idled on the open ground before the garage, its blades slicing the night air. Medics swarmed around Owen, their movements precise—checking vitals, guiding him toward the aircraft. His face was gaunt, etched with exhaustion, yet meticulously clean-shaven, his clothes crisp and new. Nate’s men, having taken charge mere hours ago, had tended to him with care, washing away neglect and dressing him with dignity.
Tears welled in my eyes, but I clenched my jaw, refusing to let them fall. I couldn’t rush forward, couldn’t let sobs or collapse disrupt the urgent rhythm of Owen’s transfer. Instead, I seized a fleeting gap in the bustle, matching their hurried steps. My fingers, trembling, slipped a moonstone pendant—smeared with my blood—around his neck.
I ached to slice my wrist then
