Page 143 of BounBound By Scars

Spencer’s eyes flicked to Maverick. Barely a second. Then he looked away like he hadn’t.

Maverick swallowed. Hard.

“What does that mean for us?” he asked, his voice too casual.

“It means,” I said, keeping my tone even, “his access has been revoked. He’s cut off from all ops, intel, and communications. Permanently.”

They nodded. A few whispers spread, low and uncertain.

“Back to work,” Zane barked.

Chairs scraped. Fingers flew back to keyboards. The room snapped back to motion.

I leaned toward Zane and spoke low. “Spencer and Mav.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I saw it. I’ll keep an eye.”

???

The days bled into each other—blurred between coded strings and long hours of chasing shadows.

Zane and I had barely left the Command Center. Him hunched over monitors, me parked in my wheelchair and a laptop warming my thighs. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even hopeful. But it wassomething.

“You sleeping at all?” I asked, not looking up.

“Define sleeping,” Zane muttered.

I glanced at him. His blond hair a mess. Jaw peppered with stubble. Eyes red-rimmed behind his gold frame glasses. “That’s a no.”

He grunted. “Delara’s tripled the security layers around our families, by the way. Real-time monitoring, relocation contingencies, facial scans keyed to unknowns. It’s solid.”

I nodded, relieved. “I didn’t ask, but I’ve been hoping you were keeping tabs.”

“I always do,” he said, softer now.

I didn’t respond.

The soft whirring of machines had become background noise by now.

“Has Ronan stirred at all?” I asked after a beat of silence, fingers hovering over my keyboard.

Zane didn’t respond right away.

I glanced at him. He was staring blankly at a monitor, jaw clenched, eyes glassy in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“Zane?”

His shoulders dropped just slightly. “No. Not yet.”

I swallowed. “What are the doctors saying?”

Still nothing. Just the quiet clicking of his mouse, like maybe if he worked fast enough, it would distract him from the fact that Ronan hadn’t opened his eyes in weeks.

“You don’t have to—”

“They’re not saying anything anymore,” he said. “Because they don’t know. Neural inflammation’s going down, but there’s no activity. No signs of consciousness. No change.”

I went still.

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