Page 39 of Forged in Fire

There will be consequences for this choice. Variables to assess. Damage to minimize. Releasing her isn’t an option—she’s seen my face, knows me, could identify me to any number of hostile parties. Handing her over to the Guild would be a death sentence.

I need time to think. To plan.

Except thinking requires clarity. And she’s fucked that up completely.

Goddammit.

Time passes. The cabin dims as the fire dies to embers, orange light fading to deep red. Iris watches me from the bed—her eyes reflecting the dying flames, silent, assessing. I sink deeper into the worn leather chair, drop my head back against the headrest.

Meditation. Focus. Standard Guild protocols learned in freezing facilities and reinforced through years of high-stress operations—inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for eight, let the tension bleed away with each controlled breath.

It’s not working.

My pulse stays elevated, scales shifting under my skin.

All the training. Discipline under pressure that’s saved my life more times than I can count. This woman is systematically destroying every defense I’ve built.

My own damned fault for letting her get to me.

Hours crawl past with agonizing slowness. I pretend to rest while she pretends to sleep, both of us hyperaware of every breath, every micro-movement, every shift in the creaking cabin around us. The space between us feels electrified, charged withtension that has nothing to do with professional protocols and everything to do with the way her scent keeps drifting across the room despite my attempts to ignore it.

By 2 AM, I’ve abandoned any hope of sleep. Accepted the reality that my mind won’t quiet while she’s this close. The approaching crisis suffocates rational thought. Something has to give.

It does.

Shortly after 2 AM, the perimeter alarm activates with a shrill electronic whine that cuts through the mountain silence. I’m on my feet in an instant, eyes on the monitors.

Multiple contacts approaching fast from the south. Four distinct thermal signatures visible on my tablet—armed, organized, maintaining standard military spacing as they advance through the tree line.

Not social callers. Not lost hikers. Professionals.

Guild cleanup protocol. When operatives go dark without explanation, they dispatch assets to eliminate all complications and witnesses.

Allcomplications.

I’ve always known about the contingencies, read the protocols in classified briefings. Never expected immediate activation. Never imagined they’d deploy them against me. Certainly not so fast.

My choices in this matter just became irrelevant.

“What is that?” Iris’s voice is sharp with alertness despite having feigned sleep for hours.

“Company.” I kill the alarm, grab weapons from the cache. Rifle. Blade. Sidearms. My tactical bag.

The motion sensors trip with soft electronic chirps. They’re closer now, maybe five hundred feet out and closing fast. Two minutes to contact, maximum.

I cross to her position in three strides. She tenses as I approach, shadows coiling around her like snakes.

“Stay still.”

“What are you doing?” Her eyes go wide as I reach for the ankle restraint. She kicks reflexively, but my grip holds firm.

“Getting us out of here.”

The lock on her ankle cuffs clicks open smoothly. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t attack. Just sits there watching me warily as I unlock her wrist cuffs. Without a word of warning, I pull her upright sharply, the contact sending heat up my arm.

“Why—?”

The window explodes inward.