Page 114 of Breaking His Exile

“My ribs are fine. It’s my head that hurts.” She looked past him, toward the clearing. “Who was that shot?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it⁠—”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t. The gunshot had been clean. Single round. Not part of the firefight. Something deliberate. He’d heard enough final shots to recognize the difference.

Footsteps crashed through the underbrush behind them. Fast. Frantic. Breaking branches, no attempt at stealth.

Evander reached for his knife. Found empty air—he’d surrendered it at the gate, part of the unarmed charade—and settled for shifting his body between Rainey and the sound.

River burst into the small clearing. His face was wild. Blood on his jacket—not his own, Evander didn’t think—and his rifle clutched in both hands, barrel pointed at the ground but his finger inside the trigger guard. He saw Rainey. Stopped. The rifle dropped to his side.

“Oh god. Rain.”

He crossed the space in three strides and dropped to his knees beside her. His hands reached for her face. Evander didn’t move. Didn’t step back. His body stayed between River and the tree, one hand still braced against the trunk above Rainey’s head, and the tension in the small clearing went from alert to something else entirely.

“She’s concussed,” Evander said. “Possible fracture at the temple. Zip tie abrasions. Nothing life-threatening if we get her to Bear.”

River’s eyes flicked to Evander’s face. Really looked at him. Saw the blood on his neck, the set of his jaw, the way Evander’s body had positioned itself—not over Rainey, not possessive, but between her and whatever might come through those trees next.

“I’ll take her,” River said. He reached for Rainey’s shoulders.

Evander’s hand closed over River’s wrist. Not hard. Just present. Anchoring.

“No.”

River froze. His jaw worked. Something raw moved across his face—grief, rage, the devastation of a man who had just watched the woman he loved reveal herself as a weapon aimed at his sister. He looked at Evander’s hand on his wrist. Then at Evander’s face.

“I need to help,” River said. His voice cracked. “I need to do something.”

“Then secure the perimeter.” Evander released him. “North tree line, fifty yards out. Brandt’s men are still clearing the turnout. We need eyes on the approaches.”

River stared at him. For a heartbeat, Evander thought the kid would swing. Would take the grief and the guilt and the rage and put it into his fist because that was easier than carrying it.

River stood. Grabbed his rifle. Nodded once.

“Fifty yards. North.” He turned. Paused. Looked back at Rainey. “I’ll be right there. The whole time.”

He disappeared into the trees. His footsteps faded, deliberate now, controlled. A man channeling chaos into purpose.

The clearing went quiet. Just the sound of Rainey’s breathing, shallow and a little ragged, and Tilly’s whine, and the distant radio chatter from the turnout where Brandt’s team was securing what remained of Mal’s operation.

Evander turned back to Rainey. Her eyes were open. Watching him. Clearer now, the concussion receding enough for focus.

“You sent my brother away,” she said.

“He needed a job.”

“He needed his sister.”

“He needed not to watch me fall apart.” Evander brushed his thumb across her split lip. The blood had started to dry. He wanted to clean it. Wanted to put his mouth there and take the taste of copper away. His hand shook. He hadn’t noticed it shaking until now.

Rainey caught his wrist. Held it. Her fingers were warm where they’d been cold minutes ago. Circulation returning. Color coming back into her skin.

“You came back,” she said.