Page 113 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

You died.

“Not yet.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Though not for lack of trying.”

Her face transforms—disbelief to shock to something raw and primal. She crosses the room in three steps and slams into me with enough force to make my injured leg buckle. I don’t care. Her body against mine, real and alive, is worth any pain.

“They showed us footage.” Her voice muffles against my chest. “The chopper. The explosion. They told us no one could have survived.”

“Malfor’s good with special effects.” I bury my face in her hair, breathe her in. Beneath the antiseptic hospital smell, she’s still there. Still Ally.

Hank moves to us, his hand hovering for a moment before settling on Ally’s shoulder. She turns, not letting go of me, and pulls him into our embrace. The three of us stand there, a tangle of arms and relief and shared breath.

“You’re here,” is all she manages, fingers digging into both of us like we might disappear if she loosens her grip.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us three. This feels right. Normal. The way it’s supposed to be. Not Ally and me. Not Ally and Hank. All of us together, the strange geometry of our relationship is somehow perfect in its complexity.

My eyes meet Hank’s over her head. The tension from before—the fight, the harsh words, the distance—still lingers, but something else pushes through.

Understanding.

Shared purpose.

The knowledge that whatever bullshit lies between us, we both came for her. We both need her. And maybe, though neither of us would say it aloud, we both need each other too.

I want this for the rest of my life. Ally between us, safe. The three of us figuring it out together. I hope to God I haven’t fucked things up with Hank beyond repair. We’ll never go back to what we were, but maybe we can build something new from the ashes.

Something stronger.

Ally pulls back slightly, eyes moving between us. She sees something—the remnants of our conflict—and her brow furrows. But there’s no time to untangle that mess now.

Around us, similar reunions unfold. Carter wraps Jenna in his arms, her face buried in his neck. Rigel cups Mia’s face like she might shatter. Walt engulfs Malia in a bear hug that lifts her off the ground.

Ethan moves to the corner where Rebel sits. Blood cakes half her face from a deep laceration that runs from temple to jaw. Her right arm hangs at an unnatural angle—dislocated or broken, maybe both. Bruises mar the skin that shows beneath the torn medical scrubs, and her breathing comes in shallow, pained gasps.

She tries to stand as Ethan approaches, soldier’s pride refusing to show weakness. Her legs buckle.

“Easy.” He catches her before she hits the floor, his movements gentle despite the urgency in his eyes. His fingers brush hair from her face, revealing more bruising. Something dangerous flashes across his features—a cold fury I’ve rarely seen.

“What did they do to you?” The question emerges as barely more than a whisper, but the promise of violence behind it fills the room.

“Tried to break me.” Her voice emerges stronger than her body, cracked but defiant. “Failed.”

Ethan’s jaw works silently. I know that look—he’s cataloging every injury, storing it away, building a debt that will be paid in blood.

“Can you walk?” he finally asks.

She grits her teeth. “Not fast.”

“I’ve got you.” He lifts her, one arm supporting her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She sinks against him, trust overriding pride.

His gaze sweeps the room, assessing each woman, each operator, calculating odds and options. When he speaks, his voice carries calm authority despite the storm I can see building behind his eyes.

“We have eighteen minutes to clear the compound before total lockdown. Every second counts. Stay tight, move fast, keep quiet. Questions come later—when we’re safe.”

Jeb finds Stitch against the far wall, quickly checking her injuries. She nods at his unspoken question—she can move on her own.

“Listen carefully,” Ethan continues. “Stay close. Move when we move. Stop when we stop. We’re getting you home, but I need you all focused. Clear?”

Six nods. These women aren’t civilians anymore. Whatever Malfor did to them burned away hesitation.