Page 18 of Donovan

He wasn’t wrong.

I didn’t know what I was walking into. I didn’t even know what I’d do when I found Declan.

If he was still… if there was still something left to save. The thought made my breath hitch.

I swallowed it down and forced a smirk. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Kit just studied me, eyes sharp, reading me too well.

I hesitated. A second too long.

“I’ll be back,” I said finally. A lie.

Kit knew it. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something. Stop me, maybe.

But he didn’t. He just nodded.

“Take care of yourself,” I added, turning on my heel before I could change my mind.

I heard him inhale like he was going to call me back, ask me again where I was really going.

I didn’t give him the chance. I walked away, toward my bike and I didn’t look back.

The night air was frigid, the cold biting through my jacket as I sped down the road, my motorcycle roaring beneath me.

The city lights blurred behind me, swallowed by the dark expanse of the open road. I barely noticed.

My focus was ahead, toward the private airstrip, toward the man who had just called me with terror in his voice.

I replayed my last conversation with Declan over and over in my head, the words cutting into me like a blade.

"If I lose control, I need you to end it."

The sentence twisted inside me, an ugly, festering thing.

Declan had never talked like that. Not once. Not in all the years I had known him.

Declan was a survivor. He was strong, relentless, unshakable. Someone I admired as a hunter, as a fighter,

I clenched my jaw. On that call, he had sounded… broken. There had been raw fear in his voice. And that scared the hell out of me.

Wind whipped against me as I pushed the throttle harder, the engine growling in protest, but I didn’t care.

Every second I wasted was a second closer to losing him. I wouldn’t lose him.

Declan was wrong. If he thought I had come all this way just to put him down, he was dead wrong.

I wasn’t a planner. I never had been. I didn’t have a strategy for what came next. I didn’t need one.

All I knew was that I had to see him. And I wasn’t going to let him die. Not like this.

The private airstrip loomed ahead, floodlights cutting through the night. My tires screeched as I pulled up, gravel crunching beneath the wheels.

The second I cut the engine, I jumped off, not bothering to take off my helmet before striding toward the waiting jet.

Tom was already there, standing by the open door, arms crossed, looking me up and down. His expression was half amusement, half concern.

“You look like hell,” he said.