“Tess… inside…”
“I know.”
“Go,” Scout rasped. “Get him.”
Burke’s gaze snapped toward the tree line — Rosie’s bark cutting sharp through the woods.
Every instinct screamed to stay.
To hold the pressure.
To wait for EMS.
But Scout’s hand caught his sleeve.
Weak. Bloody. Commanding.
“Burke,” Scout rasped. “GO!”
Burke looked down at his friend — bleeding out in the frost and still trying to give orders.
Then toward the woods.
And made the call.
Burke crashed into the tree line, branches whipping his face.
He’d lost sight of him.
Rosie hadn’t.
Her bark shifted—lower now. Hunting.
Burke followed the sound, boots sliding over wet leaves.
Movement to his right.
An old equipment shed hunched against the slope, door hanging half open.
Rosie lunged toward it.
The door slammed.
Burke rounded the corner just as Sinclair burst from the far side, trying to circle downhill.
Rosie hit him mid-stride.
She slammed into his side and dragged him down again, teeth sinking into his coat sleeve.
Sinclair let out a raw sound—not dignified, not controlled, just human.
“Fass!” Burke barked.
Rosie held.
Sinclair twisted, reaching toward his jacket pocket.
Burke saw the movement.
