I watch until her shape melts into the night. I shouldn’t, but I take the extra second anyway, committing the line of her hips, the roll of her shoulders, the way she moves like she owns whatever ground she’s on. If this goes sideways, that’s the picture I want seared into my brain.
I turn and catch Cole staring at me from across the barn.
“Really?” he says.
I shrug. “If I die tonight, I want my last thought to be something worth dying with.”
He snorts. “Touché.”
He throws one last look over his shoulder before disappearing, leaving the door cracked so I have a clean line of sight to the house.
The barn swallows the sound of his footsteps.
It feels wrong with them gone. Too open. Too quiet. Too much empty space to give my anxiety time to rattle back to the forefront of my thoughts.
I climb into the tractor cab and shut the door. The metal thuds solid behind me, sealing out the smoke, chaos, and my nerves. Inside, it smells like oil, dust, and sweat. Familiar. Grounding.Like Drew.
I close my eyes and see his grin, crooked and unapologetic. Hear his laugh, loud and unbothered, the kind that always meant trouble was coming and somehow he’d make it worth it. He should be here. I keep expecting Drew to climb up into the truck bed and give me hell for taking this thing too seriously.
“I’ll get them for you, bud,” I whisper. The words scrape out of my throat. “I swear.”
I set the axe on the seat beside me where my hand can find it without looking. The shotgun rests against the console, solid and ready. I check the fuel gauge. Full. I twist in my seat and look through the rear window at the canisters strapped to the flatbed. Rope tight. No slack. No mercy.
Good.
I sit there, one hand on the wheel, breathing slowly through my nose.
I wait.
I slip my other hand into my jeans pocket and grip the flare until my palm aches, knuckles pale. I run the plan through my head again and again like a prayer.
Burn the patch.
Smash whatever survives.
Destroy the monsters.
End this.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel, restless. I hate waiting. I hate not knowing if Val’s okay. If Cole’s already in trouble. If I’ll see either of them again.
Through the crack in the open door, the farmhouse looms in the distance, dark and intact. I lean forward and mutter, “All right, Cole. Light it up.”
The seconds stretch thin.
Then thinner.
And somewhere out there, the night prepares to answer.
EIGHTEEN
I HATE THIS
COLE
I hate this.
I hate this.
