Page 101 of The Hunter's Empire

Idrop to my knees beside her so hard the impact rattles through my bones, but I barely register it. The cave is cold, damp, and suffocatingly silent except for the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

Every sound seems unnaturally loud, every second stretching longer than it should. My entire world narrows to the woman lying motionless in front of me.

For a moment, I simply stare.

Water glistens on her skin. Strands of dark hair cling to her face and neck. Her clothes are soaked through, plastered against her body, and she is far too still. The sight unsettles me in a way I don't immediately understand.

Zora is many things. Stubborn, infuriating, reckless. But she has never been still. Even when she's silent, there is always something alive about her. Looking at her now feels wrong, as though I'm staring at a stranger wearing her face.

A sharp unease settles beneath my ribs.

I press two fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse, and hold them there longer than necessary because my mind refuses to accept what my body already knows.

Nothing.

The silence inside the cave suddenly feels unbearable.

"Zora." Her name leaves my mouth rougher than I intend. She doesn't move. Doesn't react. Doesn't even seem to hear me.

"Fuck." The curse slips under my breath as I immediately roll her onto her back and position my hands over the center of her chest. Training takes over where thought fails.

I begin compressions, counting automatically while my gaze remains fixed on her face, searching for any sign that she's still here. Nothing.

The rhythm becomes mechanical. My arms work while my thoughts betray me.

I remember the day I walked into Stefano's office with her file in my hands. The moment I learned who she really was, I knew exactly what I was looking at. A Krogen. Marcus Krogen's daughter. The daughter of the man who murdered my father.

I still remember placing the file on Stefano's desk and telling him we should hire her. He looked at me like I'd lost my mind,reminding me exactly whose daughter she was, but that was the point.

Getting close to Zora Krogen had consumed my life for months. She was never supposed to be anything more than a way in, another calculated move in a revenge that had already cost me too much.

I boarded her private jet with every intention of finally killing her. It was supposed to end there. But when the moment came... I couldn't do it. Something stopped me. I told myself it was strategy, that I needed more time, a better opportunity. It wasn't.

Somewhere along the way, though, she stopped being Marcus Krogen's daughter. She became Zora, and without realizing it, I'd started fighting to protect her instead of using her.

I force air into her lungs before immediately returning to chest compressions, refusing to let my hands stop moving. My arms burn with the effort, but I press down harder anyway.

"Don't do this." I mutter through clenched teeth. "You don't get to do this."

Water drips from my hair onto her face as I push harder, refusing to acknowledge the growing desperation clawing its way through my chest.

"You were supposed to be a target." Another compression. Another breath forced into her lungs. "A means to an end. That's all you were supposed to be."

The words should have felt true. They don't.

I try to focus on the rhythm of the compressions instead, on the familiar repetition of movement and technique, but my attention keeps drifting back to her face. To the unnatural stillness of it. To the terrifying absence of the sharp, infuriating woman who never seems capable of keeping her opinions to herself.

The cave feels far too quiet without her.

Grinding my teeth, I tilt her head back, pinch her nose, and breathe air into her lungs before immediately returning to compressions. My shoulders ache. Every muscle in my body feels as though it's been stretched beyond its limits, but I refuse to stop.

"Come on, Zora." My voice barely sounds like my own. It's rough with exhaustion, frayed by desperation, but I don't stop. I keep pressing against her chest with steady, practiced movements, counting silently in my head as I force myself to stay focused.

Again. Again. Again.

The image of dragging her through the surf flashes through my mind without warning. The dead weight of her body. The cold terror that settled in my chest when she hadn't opened her eyes. The possibility that after everything we'd survived, this would be how it ended.

"No." The word escapes before I can stop it.