Hannah
Clay is seconds away from killing him.
I can feel it.
The tension rolling off him is almost physical now, sharp enough to cut through the smoke-filled loading dock.
Every muscle in his body is locked tight beside me.
Every breath controlled too carefully.
He wants this man dead.
Immediately.
Unfortunately, the militia commander knows it too.
Which means Clay is walking straight into a trap if he loses control.
The commander studies us calmly while armed men continue surrounding the warehouse outside.
Nobody lowers their weapons.
Nobody relaxes.
This entire situation feels balanced on the edge of a knife.
“You’re bleeding,” I murmur quietly without looking at Clay. “Were you hit?”
His head snaps slightly toward me.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Blood darkens the side of his vest near his ribs.
Not pouring.
Not critical.
But enough to tell me he was injured during the firefight.
Idiot.
The commander notices the exchange immediately.
“Doctor instincts,” he says mildly. “Even now.”
I ignore him completely and crouch beside one of the supply crates instead.
Partially because I need medical gauze.
Mostly because I need Clay to breathe for five seconds before he does something catastrophic.
The child stays glued to my side while I quickly dig through the damaged medical bag Lucas managed to recover earlier.
Behind me, Russ keeps talking.
