Page 33 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

I floated in a darkness that didn’t hurt. Not yet.

The pain came later—first a dull pressure behind my ribs, then an ache that rolled through my stomach like a slow wave. I heard voices. Muffled, far away. The beep of a machine. A faint shuffle of feet. It all felt like it belonged to someone else.

And then, a hand. Warm. Rough. Familiar.

Faron.

I knew it was him before I opened my eyes.

His hand was wrapped around mine, anchoring me, tethering me to something real.

I blinked slowly, the light filtering in from the blinds sharp against the haze in my brain.

His head was bowed, jaw tight, as if he was praying or maybe just holding himself together.

“You look like hell,” I whispered.

His head jerked up. His eyes found mine instantly, wide and raw and too bright. I saw everything in that one look—fear, relief, and something deeper. Something that made my chest squeeze.

“Blue,” he breathed. “Jesus. Don’t do that again.”

I tried to smile. It lasted half a second. Then the memory slammed into me.

The man. The hoodie. The gun.

I gasped and flinched. My stomach seized with pain, and Faron reached for me.

“Hey. Easy. You’re safe.” His voice dropped low. “He’s gone. You’re okay.”

“Did they catch him?”

Faron’s expression darkened. “Cyclone and River are on him. They’ll find him. We have one of them.”

I nodded, the motion too much for my aching body. I closed my eyes.

“The kid,” I said. “The one who came in. Did he make it?”

Faron stared at me like I’d grown another head. “You almost died, and you’re asking about him?”

I blinked. “So he’s okay?”

“Yeah. Because of you.”

A tear slipped down my cheek. I didn’t cry. Not anymore. But that little girl inside me—the one who used to believe she could fix everything with enough grit and grace—was broken.

“What if I can’t go back?” I whispered. “What if I freeze the next time someone needs me?”

Faron didn’t answer right away. He brushed a knuckle over my cheek, gentle as breath.

“Then you don’t go back until you’re ready. You don’t have to prove anything. Not to them. Not to me.”

“But the building. Julia’s Place—”

“Will still happen. Stronger. Safer. With cameras and guards and a dozen people who love you backing you up.”

I looked at him, really looked. His face was worn, but he was steady. Solid. My storm anchor.

“You’re really not going anywhere?”

He leaned forward and kissed my temple. “Not a chance. You’re it for me.”