Page 43 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

Then I see him—Knox, locked in close combat with someone in tactical gear.

Someone I recognize. One of our own.

My stomach drops as I witness the knife flash, blood sprays, and Knox's face goes blank as his former teammate crumples at his feet. My heart twists in my chest, both for Knox and for the brotherhood we’ve formed, now torn apart by chaos.

"Keep moving!" I order, desperation lacing my voice, but it cracks. This isn’t combat—it’s slaughter. And I led us right into it.

Eli’s scream cuts through the chaos, a piercing cry that shakes me to my core. "She's dying! Someone help—she's just a kid!"

Through the smoke, I see him cradling a girl, blood seeping between his fingers as he tries desperately to stop the bleeding. Her eyes are already going dim, fading like my grip on this mission.

"I'm sorry," Eli whispers. "I'm so sorry."

I want to scream, to tell him it isn’t his fault, but the words stick in my throat, a choking reminder of my own failures.

The civilian, desperate and frightened, yanks free from my grip, stumbling toward a figure in the distance. His contact. His friend. I watch helplessly, the world cracking apart with every beat of my heart.

"Wait!" I lunge after him, but I’m too slow.

The shot cracks out like a whip, echoing in the void of my mind.

The translator falls.

The civilian screams, a raw, anguished sound that cuts through me like a knife.

Time slows. I see everything with crystalline clarity: Eli, still holding the dead girl, a broken man amidst the wreckage. Knox, covered in the blood of a friend he couldn’t save. Caleb, staring at the tripwire he missed like it holds all the answers.

My team. My responsibility. My fault.

That day, I made a promise, one forged in the fires of trauma: Never again. Never let emotion cloud judgment. Never let personal feelings endanger the mission.

Because the minute you care is the same minute people die.

The routine should ground me. It usually does. Every sweep, every check, every tactical motion—they're supposed to be anchors.

Ways to quiet the storm.

But today, the familiar motions feel hollow. My hands move through weapons maintenance while my mind races elsewhere.

To her. To the note. To the weight gathering at the edges of The Forge like storm clouds.

I strip and reassemble my sidearm for the third time, muscle memory taking over while everything else inside me wages war. The pieces click into place with military precision.

Clean. Efficient. If only decisions were this simple.

Keep moving. Don't think. Don't choose.

But the choices are already there, pressing against my skull like a blade.

Sloane or safety. Mission or emotion.

I can't have both. Can't protect both.

The last time I tried splitting that difference, my men burned.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the training yard. I should be coordinating drills. Running scenarios. Being the leader these men trusted enough to follow into exile.

Instead, I'm out here. Alone. Walking the perimeter like a ghost.