Page 38

Beck

The military-grade helicopter cuts through the night sky like a blade, its rotors churning through mountain air so thin it burns my lungs.

Dmitri's mercenaries are silent, waiting.

These are men who've done this kind of work in places where mistakes mean death.

I silently watch as they check their weapons, review tactical positions, and communicate with short, clipped Russian phrases.

I've worked with dangerous men before, but never like this.

These aren't corporate security or even high-end bodyguards.

These are soldiers of fortune, the kind who destroy governments and extract hostages from war zones.

The kind who don't ask questions about collateral damage.

"ETA three minutes," the pilot announces through our headsets.

Beside me, Jude grips the armrest of his seat, his face pale with concentration as he tries to maintain contact with Emmie through their soul bond.

He's been reaching out every few minutes since we left the airfield.

But for the past half an hour, he is growing more frantic each time he fails to connect.

"Anything?" I ask him for what feels like the millionth time.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched with frustration. "Nothing. She said he had a syringe."

"She's not dead," Eli interrupts sharply from across the cabin. "If she were dead, you'd feel it. Soul bonds don't just disappear."

Jude nods, but I can see the fear eating at him. The fear that we're too late, that Blake has already done something irreversible.

"He won't kill her. She's too valuable for that," I say and watch Jude's shoulders drop.

The helicopter begins its descent, and through the windows I can see Blake's compound spread out below us—a fortress of logs and stone nestled in a valley between snow-capped peaks.

Motion-sensor lights illuminate the perimeter, revealing armed guards patrolling the grounds like a military operation.

"Target confirmed," Dmitri's team leader announces. "Multiple hostiles visible, probable additional personnel inside structure. Recommend tactical approach from three vectors."

Within minutes, we're on the ground, boots crunching through snow as Dmitri's men move between the trees and head toward the compound. A hand raises in the air for us to stop.

"Four targets in view. Permission to kill."

Dmitri glances at me. I nod. "Granted."

The night erupts in controlled violence. All four men are now dead on the floor, with red snow pooling around them.

Hand grenades shatter windows and ears, suppressed gunfire cutting down Blake's security team before they can retaliate.

I've seen corporate espionage, white-collar crime, even organized crime enforcement. But this is war, swift and brutal and absolutely final.

"Jude," I bark as we approach the main house. "Try to contact her again. Now."

He closes his eyes, reaching out through the soul bond while Eli and I cover his position. Around us, Dmitri's team systematically neutralizes resistance, moving through the compound with nothing but death on their minds.

"Still nothing," Jude whispers, his voice thick with desperation. "Beck, what if he's moved her? What if she's not here?"

That's when Eli freezes, head tilted in that predatory way that means his enhanced senses have caught something the rest of us missed.

"There," he says, pointing toward a line of footprints in the snow leading away from the main house toward the mountain face. "Fresh tracks. Someone was carried this way recently."

Two of Dmitri's men immediately peel off to follow the trail, but something in Jude's expression stops me from joining them.

"What is it?"

"The trail it's a decoy. She's here," he breathes, his eyes suddenly bright with certainty. "Beck, she's here. In the house. I can...I can smell her."

I lift my chin, drawing in a deep breath of mountain air, and there it is—faint but unmistakable beneath the scents of gunpowder and the chemical tang of sedatives, is the smell of thunder before the storm begins. "She's stressed."

Eli's nostrils flare as he catches the scent trail, his senses immediately locking onto Emmie's location. "Basement," he says with absolute certainty. "She's below ground level."

We move through the house like hunting wolves, following that precious thread of scent past expensive furniture and elegant artwork, past the bodies of Blake's men who chose violence over surrender.

The trail leads us to a hidden door behind the main staircase, revealing steps carved into living rock. The basement isn't a basement at all—it's a bunker, complete with reinforced walls and what looks like multiple holding cells. But only one is occupied.

Emmie lies unconscious on a narrow bed, her face pale, and slack from whatever Blake injected her with. She's breathing steadily, but when Eli checks her pulse, his expression darkens.

"Heavy sedation," he reports grimly. "Whatever he gave her, it's designed to keep her under for hours."

I want to carry her myself. I want to be the one to bring our Omega to safety. But Eli is faster, stronger, better suited for extraction under fire. He lifts her carefully, cradling her against his chest like she's made of spun glass.

"I've got her," he says. "Let's go."

We're halfway up the basement stairs when gunfire erupts from the main floor—not the controlled bursts of Dmitri's team, but the desperate spray of someone making a last stand.

"Blake," I snarl, passing by Emmie and Eli to cover them. I point to another stairway. "Go that way."

I find Blake in the main hallway, his back against a massive stone fireplace, a high-end assault rifle in his hands. One of his bodyguards lies dead at his feet, blood pooling on expensive hardwood. Blake himself looks like a cornered animal—wild-eyed, desperate, but still dangerous.

"Beck Silver," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I underestimated you."

"It's over, Blake. Your men are dead, your compound is taken. Surrender now and maybe—"

"Maybe what? You'll let me live to face trial? To spend the rest of my life in prison?" He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "I don't think so."

Behind him, I can see Eli emerging from the basement access, with Emmie in his arms and two guards covering them. She's still unconscious, her head lolling against his shoulder, completely vulnerable.

"But you can't have her," Blake continues, his grip tightening on his weapon. "She belongs to me. I made her what she is."

"That's why I came for her," I reply, raising my gun. "Because she's mine. My pack’s Omega. Not yours."

Blake's attention shifts as he catches sight of Eli carrying Emmie toward the exit. His expression twists with possessive rage, and his rifle swings in their direction.

"If I can't—"

I raise my gun. My bullet takes him between the eyes before he can finish the sentence, the back of his skull exploding against the stone fireplace in a spray of blood and bone. His body crumples like a puppet with cut strings.

"No," I say to his corpse. "You can't."

The flight back from Colorado passes in a blur of medical checks and anxious watching.

Emmie remains unconscious for most of the journey, the sedatives Blake used still working their way through her system.

But her breathing is steady, her color gradually improving, and Jude maintains constant contact through their soul bond.

"She's dreaming," he reports at one point, his hand resting gently on her forehead. "Nothing coherent, but I can feel her consciousness stirring."

It's as we begin our descent toward home that her eyes finally flutter open. For a moment she looks confused, disoriented, her gaze moving between the three of us with growing wonder. Then understanding hits, and she bursts into tears. Not from fear or pain, but with overwhelming relief.

"You came for me," she whispers, her voice hoarse from the sedatives. "You actually came."

"Of course we came," I tell her, taking her hand in both of mine. "We choose you, baby girl. We'll always choose you."

Eli moves to her other side, stroking her hair with infinite gentleness. "You're our Omega. Our pack mate. Did you really think we'd leave you with him?"

"But the risk," she protests weakly. "The danger. Blake could have killed you all."

"He could have tried," Jude says with quiet conviction, his hand finding hers. "But we're stronger together than he ever understood. And you're worth any risk."

She looks between the three of us—her pack, her family, her chosen mates—and something settles in her expression. The fear and uncertainty that's haunted her for months finally gives way to absolute trust.

"I love you," she says simply. "All of you. So much."

"We love you too," I reply, speaking for all of us. "And we're letting no one take you away again."

"Is he—"

"He's dead, Emmie. You're safe."

As the lights of home appear below us, something shifts in the fundamental bonds that hold our pack together. Through violence and the test of separation that pushed us to our absolute limits, we've emerged stronger than ever.