The final hatch was at the end of a short passageway. He burst through and into the open air. Hail drove sideways across the walkway.
A ladder to the helipad was straight ahead.
He climbed, fighting to stay upright against brutal squalls that fought to dislodge him. He reached the top of the ladder, panting. The wind whipped over the helipad. The flares still burned at the edge, guttering bright.
“Ryder?”
Her voice.
She was swallowed by borrowed gear—bulky orange life jacket, clumpy men’s boots. A fire hose was knotted around her waist, the line stretched taut between her and Jack.
He boosted up, crossed the pad in four strides and caught her, arms locking around her so tight she made a small sound against his chest.
Ivy.
She was freezing, soaked through, trembling. He buried his face in her damp hair and felt her breathing, her heart thudding against his ribs in a matching rhythm.
Alive.
The storm went quiet in his head. The rig, the pain—gone. None of it mattered. Only her breath, hot against his neck, proof she was still here.
“Christ, Ivy.” The words scraped out of him, rough and broken. Everything else jammed in his throat where it hurt to breathe.
Jack’s voice carried up from behind Ivy. “About damn time.”
He pulled back enough to check Ivy over. Her eyes were bloodshot from wind and smoke, and her hands were torn up and bloody. Tears streaked across her cheeks. She was wrecked but still standing, the fight in her still a bright flame—more alive than anything he’d ever seen.
He cupped her face between his freezing hands, just looking at her.
His Ivy.
Training kicked in.
“You hurt anywhere?” His voice came out gravel as he freed her from the hose.
She shook her head. “I feel like I’ve been locked in a box and left to die.” Her cracked lips twitched, half defiance, half relief. “But I’m okay.”
“Liar.” He ran his thumb along the line of her jaw. “We move. Now.”
She nodded. “Jack first.”
Ryder turned, dropping to a crouch. He removed his knife and cut Jack free of the hose. “Talk to me, Jack. What’ve you got?”
Jack squinted up at him, pale and blood-smeared but with a crooked grin. “Maybe a couple of busted ribs. Head’s ringing like a church bell but I’ve had worse hangovers.”
He huffed. “That’s not the brag you think it is.”
The head wound above her ear had crusted, her breathing shallow and guarded. He checked her pupils, watching for dilation. Not great, but not dying. He’d take it.
“Possible concussion,” he muttered. “No arterial bleed. Stay conscious, we can work with that.”
Jack arched an eyebrow. “You always this charming on a first date?”
He winked. “Only with the ones bleeding internally.”
Ivy let out a shaky laugh.
Ryder flicked his gaze to her—just long enough to see that spark still burning—then back to Jack.
