The sun was high and cruel when the truck finally rattled to a halt.
We weren't at a hospital. We were at a secluded farmhouse surrounded by overgrown wheat fields, miles from the nearest highway. The house looked abandoned, the paint peeling, the windows dark.
"Here?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
Rook nodded. He jumped out and ran to the front door. He didn't knock. He kicked the bottom panel three times—a specific rhythm.
I stayed in the cab, clutching Cassian's hand. He was unconscious, his skin gray, his breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps. The blood had soaked through the seatbelt, staining the fabric dark red.
"Stay with me," I whispered, squeezing his cold fingers. "We're here."
The farmhouse door flew open.
A woman stepped out. She was pointing a double-barreled shotgun directly at Rook's chest.
She was stunning in a sharp, terrifying way. Platinum blonde hair cut in a severe bob, piercing blue eyes, and wearing silk pajamas that looked out of place in the dirt.
"I told you," the woman shouted, cocking the shotgun. "If I ever saw a Vance car in my driveway again, I'd blow the tires out. And the driver."
Rook didn't flinch. He just pointed to the truck. 'Dying.'
The woman's eyes flicked to the passenger window. She saw Cassian slumped against the glass.
Her expression changed instantly. The anger didn't leave, but the professional curiosity took over. She lowered the gun.
"Bring him in," she commanded. "But don't bleed on my rugs."
The inside of the farmhouse was shocking. It wasn't a home; it was a sterile clinic. The kitchen island was stainless steel. Cabinets were filled with medical supplies.
Rook laid Cassian onto the steel table.
The woman—Isolde—snapped on a pair of latex gloves. She ripped Cassian's shirt open, buttons flying across the floor. She pressed her fingers into the wound.
Cassian groaned, his back arching off the table even in his sleep.
"Gut shot," Isolde diagnosed, her voice flat. "Missed the liver, nicked the intestine. Septic shock is setting in. He needs an OR. I have a kitchen table."
"Can you save him?" I asked, stepping forward.
Isolde looked up. For the first time, she really looked at me. She took in my torn, bloody clothes, my matted hair, and the way I was hovering over Cassian.
A cold, amused smile touched her red lips.
"Well, well," Isolde drawled. "I see Cassian finally got himself a new pet. What are you, twelve?"
"I'm nineteen," I snapped, my exhaustion making me bold. "And I'm the one who kept him alive long enough to get here. Can you fix him or not?"
Isolde raised an eyebrow. "Feisty. I like that. Cassian always did like them difficult."
She turned to Rook. "Get the ether. And the restraints. If he wakes up while I'm digging around in his intestines, he's going to thrash."
"I'll hold him," I said.
"Honey," Isolde laughed, grabbing a scalpel. "You look like a strong breeze would knock you over. Stand back and try not to vomit."
Rook strapped Cassian's wrists to the table. He placed a mask over Cassian's face, dripping ether onto it. The smell was sickly sweet and overpowering.
"Rook, you're the anesthesiologist," Isolde ordered. "Keep the drip steady. Girl, you want to help? Hold the retractor."
"What?"
"Put your hands here," she grabbed my wrist with a bloody glove, forcing my hand into Cassian's open wound. "Pull the skin back. Don't let go."
I gagged, the metallic smell of blood hitting me hard. But I looked at Cassian's pale face. I gritted my teeth and pulled.
"Good," Isolde muttered, beginning to work.
For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the snipping of scissors and the wet slick of metal on flesh.
"So," Isolde said casually, as if we were discussing the weather and not sewing up a man's stomach. "How did you manage to get the Ghost of the Syndicate shot? He's usually the one doing the shooting."
"We were ambushed," I said, my eyes fixed on Cassian's face to avoid looking at the blood. "By my father."
"Ah. Daddy issues." Isolde smirked, tying off a vessel. "Classic Cassian. He always had a savior complex. He saved me once, you know."
I stiffened. "He did?"
"Pulled me out of a sex trafficking ring in Kyiv ten years ago," Isolde said. She glanced at Cassian with a look that was equal parts hatred and longing. "He saved me, cleaned me up, put me through medical school... and then dumped me the second I caught feelings."
She looked at me, her eyes hard.
"He doesn't love, little girl. He protects. There is a difference. To him, you are a mission. A broken bird to be fixed. Don't mistake his guilt for affection. It will get you killed."
"He loves me," I said. The words came out quiet but firm.
Isolde laughed harshly. "Did he tell you that? Or did he just fuck you so good you forgot he's a sociopath?"
"Isolde," Rook growled—a warning rumble from deep in his chest.
"Relax, big guy. I'm stitching him up." Isolde tied the final knot and snipped the thread. "There. He'll live. Assuming the infection doesn't kill him in the next twenty-four hours."
She stripped off her gloves and threw them in the sink. She walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and took a swig straight from the bottle.
"He needs rest," she said, wiping her mouth. "Guest room is upstairs. Don't touch anything."
Rook unstrapped Cassian. He lifted him easily.
I started to follow Rook, but Isolde stepped in my path. She was taller than me, smelling of whiskey and blood.
"A word of advice," she whispered, leaning close. "Cassian is a weapon. You don't cuddle with weapons. You point them at your enemies and you pray they don't blow up in your hand."
I looked her dead in the eye.
"He isn't a weapon to me," I said. "He's the man who took a bullet for me. And if you ever talk about him like that again, I won't just hold the retractor. I'll use the scalpel."
Isolde blinked, surprised. Then she threw her head back and laughed.
"Okay," she said, stepping aside. "Maybe you aren't a pet after all. Go on. Go nurse your man then."
Rook laid Cassian on the dusty bed in the guest room. He checked the IV line Isolde had set up, then patted Cassian's shoulder once.
He looked at me, pointing to the chair by the bed. 'Watch him.'
"I will," I promised.
Rook nodded and left to secure the perimeter, leaving us alone.
I pulled the chair close to the bed. Cassian looked peaceful now, the pain lines smoothed out by the drugs. I took his hand, pressing it to my cheek.
"She's wrong," I whispered to his sleeping form. "You aren't just a mission. You aren't."
But a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. He saved her too. He dumped her when she caught feelings.
Was I just the new Isolde? Another broken thing he felt obligated to fix?
Cassian stirred. His fingers twitched against my cheek. His eyes opened—slits of gold in the dim light.
Aftera few hours he woke up.
"Elena," he rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper.
"I'm here," I said, leaning over him. "You're safe. Isolde fixed you."
"Isolde?" He frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Rook... took us to Isolde?"
"She saved your life," I said. "And she told me how you saved hers."
Cassian closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Isolde talks too much," he muttered.
"She also said a couple of other things" I couldn't help but blurt out.
"Like what?" He asked.
"She said you don't love," I whispered, the insecurity leaking out. "She said you only protect."
Cassian's eyes snapped open. He found my hand and squeezed it—weakly, but with intent.
"Isolde doesn't know me," he said, holding my gaze. "Not anymore. And she certainly doesn't know us."
"Us?"
"There was never an 'us' with her," Cassian said. "I saved her because it was my job. I saved you..."
He stopped, wincing as he tried to shift. He pulled my hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles.
"I saved you because I couldn't breathe in a world where you didn't exist."
The doubt vanished, burned away by the heat of his words.
"Get some sleep," I said, tears pricking my eyes. "We have a war to win tomorrow."
"No," Cassian said, fighting the drugs. "Not tomorrow. First... we need to make a call."
"A call? To who?"
"To the only person in the Syndicate who hates your father more than I do," Cassian said, a dangerous smirk touching his lips. "If we want to take the crown... we need to start a civil war."