The stage had just cleared.

The applause still echoed like distant thunder when Irina stepped down, smiling, radiant, and oblivious to the danger weaving through the crowd. Reporters. Flashing cameras. Squeals from fans. A sea of chaos forming around her.

“Let’s keep it moving,” Hondo warned, trying to flank her. His tone clipped. Controlled. “This wasn’t the plan.”

But Irina wasn’t listening. She lingered. Engaged. Signing autographs.

And that’s when you saw him.

The reporter with the pen that wasn’t just a pen.

Your instincts kicked in like gunfire. One second, he was flipping the pen in his fingers— The next, you were shoving Irina away as it clicked, spraying your face with a hissing stream of chemical agent.

Pain exploded instantly. Your vision blurred. Your skin burned. Your lungs locked.

“Shit!” Hondo cursed, catching your body as you dropped to your knees, gasping but unable to breathe. “Hey—stay with me. Look at me.”

You tried.

Tried so hard to suck in air.

But it was like your throat was shrinking.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. You were drowning in dry air.

Hondo gritted his teeth, scooping you up across his shoulders.

“You grab my hand,” he said, holding your limp fingers tight in his glove. “You squeeze. Don’t you let go. You hear me?”

You did. Weakly.

But your grip was slipping.

Your world turned to static.

Black Betty screeched to a halt. Tires smoking. Boots thudding against asphalt.

“Move! Move—out of the way!” Deacon’s voice cut through everything like a blade.

He was out of the truck before it stopped. Heart hammering. Vision narrowed.

He saw you—unconscious, limp in Hondo’s arms—and something inside him broke.

No. No, no, no. Not you. Not now. Not ever.

“Let me through!” he barked, practically shoving the others aside as he dropped to his knees beside you.

His gloves were off before anyone could speak.

He tore open your blouse at the shoulder, aligning the injector with your heart. Jaw tight. Hands steady.

And then—click.

A second stretched into a lifetime.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Come back to me.”

Then—your lungs heaved.

A gasp. Your back arched. Eyes wide. Searching.

And all you saw was him.

White walls. Steady beeping. IV lines.

Your eyelids flutter open. You were alive—but barely.

Your body ached, your skin still burning, and your throat raw from the struggle.

And there, beside your bed, unmoving, was Deacon.

Head bowed. One hand wrapped tightly around yours like he’d never let go.

Eyes red. Face set in stone. But you knew him. You knew.

He wasn’t breathing.

Not until you were.

Your fingers twitched.

His head snapped up—eyes locking with yours.

Relief didn’t wash over him.

It crashed.

He leaned forward, pressing your hand to his lips, voice breaking in a whisper you’d never heard before.

“You don’t get to leave me.”

“You hear me? You’re mine. You don’t get to die on me. Ever.”

He kissed your knuckles like a prayer. Like a man barely holding himself together. The room may have been sterile and quiet—but in his chest?

There was war.

And the next time someone tried to hurt you?

They wouldn’t live to regret it.