The blast rocked the perimeter wall. Dust shook loose from the ceiling. She was on the floor, wide-eyed, back against the gear trunk.

Dax slammed the door shut, rifle slung off his shoulder. He crossed the room in two strides, sweat soaking his undershirt, jaw gritted like stone.

He stared down at her—small, untrained, soft in a place that chewed steel.

"You listen to me and you listen now—" his voice cut through the tremors, gravel thick with heat. "You don’t flinch, you don’t cry, and you don’t make a goddamn sound unless I tell you to breathe."