The metallic tang of saltwater hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Waves slammed against the container ship’s hull, their roar echoing through the narrow corridors of stacked metal boxes. Rafe’s pulse pounded in his ears as he moved with calculated, desperate precision. The Golden Cross was close—he could feel it, taste the victory that had been snatched from him too many times.

His hands trembled, slick with sweat and the residue of salt spray, as he gripped the rifle tighter. He stalked forward, the Pogue voices distant but growing louder. They thought they could win, thought they could steal what should have been his.

And then, out of the shadows, there she was.

His heart seized—just for a moment, barely enough to register—but it was enough. The wind tore through the narrow pathway between containers, whipping her hair into a wild halo around her face. She wasn’t supposed to be here, not tangled up in this madness. Yet, seeing her, he was thrown into another storm—memories of her laugh under the summer sun, the way she’d look at him like he was more than just the angry, broken boy everyone else saw.

But that was before. Before everything went to hell.

His chest burned with a cocktail of anger and longing, the ache of betrayal slicing through him sharper than any blade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, his voice low, raw. His grip on the rifle faltered, the weight suddenly unbearable.

For a moment, all he saw was her. Not the Pogues, not the gold, not even the twisted, burning hunger for approval that had driven him here. Just her.

The chaos of the ship around them faded. The clang of boots on metal, the distant shouts—it all became white noise. His finger hovered over the trigger, but his arms felt like lead.

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he said, “Get out of here. Before I change my mind.”