“No more,” I said, standing shakily. “You help my sister first.”
He made the call.
Within minutes, we were descending in an armored SUV toward the docks—territory controlled by the men who took Ava. Rain hammered the glass as his security prepared for war.
“She’s asthmatic,” I whispered. “If they keep her damp—”
“We’ll get her,” he said, cold and absolute.
They smashed through the gates. Money was dumped in the mud. Guns were raised. The men laughed—until suppressed shots dropped three of them where they stood.
Ava was dragged out.
Alive.
I ran to her, sobbing into her hair. She shook but she was breathing. Whole.
We left the cash behind and disappeared into the night.
Back at the tower, the deal resumed.
I warned him it would hurt.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Burn me.”
I poured everything into him.
He screamed. I bled. The room blurred.
Then he stood.
For the first time in three years, Elliot Crowe stood upright, shaking, terrified, magnificent.
He collapsed on top of me, breath ragged, eyes wild.
“You’re not leaving,” he whispered.
He kissed me.
I should have stopped him. I didn’t.
Reality returned quickly. He needed more. The healing faded. It wasn’t a cure—it was a charge.
And he panicked.