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The prophecy won’t have to wait.

I’ll tear the world down myself.

There’s something about the sound of panic—raw, unfiltered—that doesn’t fit in the mouths of men like us. We’re not built for panic. We’re built for destruction, seduction, power. But right now, all I hear are their voices crashing over me like the goddamn rain slamming against the warped shell of this car.

"Fuck—fuck—Ambrose, don’t move!" Caspian’s voice is hoarse, trembling under the weight of everything he’s trying not to show.

Metal groans around us like the car’s spine is splintering, falling apart piece by piece, and I can’t breathe around the sharp, metallic taste in my mouth—can’t move, because I’m still holding her, caging her, trying to be the thing that keeps her in one piece when I’m the one bleeding out over her.

I can hear Silas swearing, a string of curses sharp enough to peel paint, and when I glance past the blood in my vision, I catch the bent angle of his arm cradled against his chest—fucked. That arm won’t be usable anytime soon. Elias is already halfway across the wreckage, his face carved from something grim and cracking, his hand shoved against the side of the car, trying to rip the metal apart like he can slow time long enough to undo this.

Riven’s voice cuts through, sharp and deadly, barking orders none of us are equipped to follow. "Get the fucking door off! Now!"

I want to tell them to stop. To leave it. Because every inch they pry me away from her might pull that metal deeper, might shift the wreckage in the wrong direction and tear her apart under me. But my mouth’s dry and I can’t seem to get the words out.

Caspian’s hands are already on me, slick with rain and blood, trying to brace my shoulders. "You’ve got to let us get you off her, Ambrose," he grits, voice cracking on my name like it costs him to say it.

I shake my head, barely. "If I move, she dies."

"She’s bleeding out!" Riven snarls from somewhere to my left, voice ragged and terrifying and desperate.

They don’t understand. None of them do. The shaft through me is the only thing pinning me here, and it's pinning her too—our blood mingling in a way that feels like the worst kind of irony. I’ve been running from her bond like a coward, terrified of the noose tightening around my throat. And now, I’m literally impaled alongside her. I am the chain.

And still, all I can think is: If I move, she dies.

Silas drags himself closer with one good arm, dragging his shattered body through the debris, muttering, "I can’t fucking lose her, Ambrose. You know I can’t."

He’s shaking, jaw tight, blood pouring down his temple.

Elias is crouched next to me now, voice softer, darker, so unlike him it makes me want to snap. "You have to let us try."

Luna stirs beneath me—a faint sound, like a breath caught on broken glass. That’s what does it. That small, ruined sound.

I nod once.

Riven and Caspian move together, synchronized, teeth gritted as they wedge their arms beneath my shoulders, under the mess of torn leather and blood, trying not to jar her. Metal screams around us as they ease me back, inch by inch, like they’re dismantling a bomb.

I want to look down at her, want to see her eyes open and lucid, but I can’t. I can’t risk shifting the angle. So I stare at Elias instead, straight into his eyes, because if I’m going to die tonight, I want him to be the one who carries it.

"Slow it down," I rasp at him. "Just for a second."

Elias nods, jaw tight, and everything blurs—slows—not much, but enough.

The car groans again. The shaft embedded in my chest drags through my ribs like a rusted knife.

And still, they keep pulling.

For her.

For me.

For whatever sick, fucked-up thing we are to each other.

The second I’m off her, she whimpers—a sound so soft, so broken, it cracks something inside me that I don’t think can ever be put back together.

And I know—

If she dies, I won’t wake up tomorrow.