This was not going right.

Your plan had failed. For once.

You were the one everyone watched because you always had an answer. Always had a backup. A quiet little contingency folded away just in case Scott’s plan went sideways. You were the safety net. The constant.

And now you had nothing.

No clever pivot. No last-second solution.

Just panic, naked and unfamiliar, crawling up your spine.

You had been careful. Meticulous. Every variable accounted for. But the one thing you had not planned for was someone who knew you too well. Someone who remembered the way you thought, the way you fought, how you anticipated your enemy before they even moved.

They had turned your own mind against you.

And it worked.

You were dangling from somewhere far too high, one arm screaming in protest as your free hand clutched at your side. Your ribs burned with every shallow breath. Something in there was definitely broken. Blood ran warm down your skin, bruises already blooming dark and ugly.

Your fingers were slipping.

You could not pull yourself up. You were too exhausted to even try. The others were busy holding the frontline, completely unaware you were gone. You had rerouted someone yourself, convinced them you were moving elsewhere. Your grip slipped.

Now you were hanging by your fingers.

Still fighting. Always fighting.

Footsteps echoed.

For one awful second, your heart dropped. Another goon. Another hit you could not take.

You forced your head up.

Remy.

The man who flirted with you like it was his religion. The man who smiled easy and joked easier. Except there was no smile now. No teasing glint in his eyes.

He looked terrified.

He was moving fast, reckless even, navigating terrain that had almost no safe footing. He did not slow down. Did not hesitate. He only kept his eyes on you like the world would end if he looked away for even a second.

The Cajun did not slow, even though there was barely any space to reach you. He moved with skill and urgency, climbing and balancing with the kind of focus that came from only one thought.

You.

Your strength was fading. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. Your fingers trembled, sweat and blood making it harder to hold on.

And then he was there.

Close enough to touch.

Remy dropped low, bracing himself, and reached out with a steady hand.

His voice broke just a little.

“Come on, mon amour,” he said, thick Cajun accent curling around every word. “Ya gotta trust me, yeah? I got ya. I ain’t lettin’ go.”

His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, unwavering.