Page 120 of Surrender to Me
The second the skids touch the snow, I know this is going to go sideways.
Lyra’s still shaking in my arms, her breath dragging raggedly against my chest, her fingers twisted in my jacket like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her above water.
I don’t want to let go. I can’t. Not after finding her like this—alone, cornered, covered in blood that isn’t all someone else’s.
The rotors send snow blasting around us in a violent halo. The noise is a wall between us and the world. Maybe that’s why she looks up at me the way she does—wide-eyed, raw, like she thinks I brought the cavalry down on her head.
Like I betrayed her.
My gut twists.
No. Not that. Anything but that.
But I see it—the flash of terror, the recoil, the way she stiffens when the Hawkeye insignia comes into view. She goes cold against me. Ice to bone.
“Easy.” I keep my voice to a light murmur against her ear, and I tighten my grip on her waist as the figures spill out of the helicopter. The tactical operators hit the ground first—three of them fanning out, rifles angled outward, sweeping the perimeter.
Only when they signal clear does Hawkeye jump, expression carved from stone, boots crunching into the snow. He’s followed by Inamorata in a sleek, dark snowsuit that makes her look like she stepped out of a fashion catalog labeled Arctic Assassin.
The medic doesn’t disembark until Hawkeye gives the nod.
Lyra flinches, clutching my jacket harder. “I need to go.” Her voice is a frantic whisper. “Stryker—I need to go, now.”
My heart kicks hard.
Every inch of her body is coiled like she’s seconds from running straight into the woods, bleeding—and the fact there’s at least one bad guy out there be damned.
Hawkeye strides toward us, voice cutting through the rotor noise with authority. “Stryker. Sitrep.”
I shift Allie slightly behind me, shielding her.
“Five hostiles engaged.” I jerk my chin toward the bodies in the snow. “Four down. One rabbit fled northeast on a snowmobile. Attackers were armed with suppressed rifles, and they spoke with heavy Russian—or Eastern European—accents. Professional movement. Not locals.”
My jaw tightens. “One civilian casualty on scene. Male. Unknown affiliation.”
Allie stiffens at that—barely—but I feel it. A small, fractured tremor against my chest.
Hawkeye nods tightly. “Bravo, sweep grid two-four and chase the rabbit. Assume he’s not alone.”
Two operators break off instantly, boots eating ground, rifles steady. The third stays planted, guarding our flank.
Inamorata approaches, her gaze flicking over Allie with surprising gentleness. “She’s hurt.”
“She’s in shock,” I say, my voice harder than I mean it to be.
Hawkeye turns to Allie directly, tone calm but firm. “Ma’am—are you injured anywhere besides the arm?”
That does it.
She stiffens, breath catching.
“Stryker, please.” Her fingers twist painfully in my jacket. “I won’t go with them.”
There it is. The panic. The terror she’s been fighting since she saw the Hawkeye insignia.
“I’ve got you.” I brush her forehead with my finger. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
Hawkeye hears that. His eyes flick between us—calculating, reassessing. But he doesn’t push.
