One short whistle cracked the silence in the yard.
It came from the breakwall—thin, final, carrying across the frost like glass under strain. For half a second it didn't register as danger, only sound slicing through the exhaust haze and the metallic tang still hanging from the firefight. Then Brock's spine locked. His hand froze on the crate lid. Across the lane, Knuckles and Kier both went still, faces turned toward the river's edge, pale under the yard light.
From the gate, Onyx straightened like he'd been yanked by a wire—rifle snapping up, eyes sweeping the dark between the containers. The whistle echoed once more, fainter this time, bouncing off corrugated steel and dying somewhere in the mist.
Brock's pulse jumped. One short meant abort.
He didn't hear it again. Instead, a voice rose from the breakwall, ragged and far—just a shape of sound at first, swallowed by the wind and the hum of the truck's cooling engine. Then the words carved through clean:
"Harper!"
The name hit like a round through his chest—not impact, but rupture. Everything inside Brock seized at once. Air. Blood. Thought. The world narrowed to that single word, shaped by panic, breaking on Mason's tongue like something dying.
The crowbar slipped from Brock's grip and hit the crate with a hollow clang. He didn't think. He was already moving, boots tearing gravel, air knifing his throat as he broke into a sprint.
"Onyx—watch that gate!" Knuckles roared, the command cracking through the dark as he launched after him. Kier followed without a word, vaulting a pallet stack and hitting the ground in a skid, rifle slung tight to his back.
The yard erupted into motion—three dark shapes cutting through the rows of containers, floodlight glare shattering across frost and steel. Brock's breath burned in his lungs. Every exhale came out white and fast, ragged with something that wasn't just exertion. The diesel stink from the dead truck still hung in the air, thick as oil, coating his tongue, mixing with the copper taste of panic.
He tore past the bodies they'd left cooling in the gravel, past the crate that still steamed where a bullet had punched through it. Frost crunched and slid under his boots, catching his balance once, twice, as he rounded the center row. Behind him, Knuckles' breath came rough and rhythmic, a half-beat out of sync with his own; Kier's gear clattered soft like teeth in the cold.
Another shout split the air—Mason again, closer now, voice ragged to breaking. The way it cracked on her name twisted something deep and old inside Brock's chest. Not command. Not warning. Grief.
He cut the corner too hard at the end of the container run, shoulder glancing metal with a brutal clang, nearly went down on the ice. His palm slapped concrete, caught himself, kept going. The river wind hit him full in the face, knife-cold, carrying salt and rust and the roar of rushing water.
Then he saw him.
Mason crouched at the breakwall's edge, one knee pressed to the concrete, his rifle abandoned beside him, breath fogging like smoke in the floodlight haze. His hands were clamped over the cold stone lip, fingers white from the strain of holding himself there, body pitched forward as though gravity itself were dragging him toward the river.
Brock's boots scraped to a stop a few yards back, the impact reverberating through the frost-hardened ground. For a second all he could hear was the churn of the current and the rattle of his own pulse hammering in his ears, in his throat, in his chest where her name still echoed.
"Mason." His voice came out rough, half-strangled, barely more than a rasp. "What the hell happened?"
Mason didn't look up. His eyes stayed locked on the black water below, pupils blown wide, the reflection of the floodlights caught like static across the surface of his face. When he spoke, his voice broke—shattered, coming apart at the seams.
"She—she went in." He swallowed hard, Adam's apple jerking, dragged in a ragged breath that clouded white in front of him. "Something hit her—someone—I swear to God, Brock, it looked like Gunner. He just—he came out of nowhere and she—" His voice cracked, splintered. "I turned around and she was gone."
The words hit Brock like a fist to the gut. His stomach dropped, the ground tilting beneath him, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roar building in his skull.
Kier's voice cut through, sharp and carrying from further down the wall. "There—there!" He was pointing out past the concrete, finger slicing through the floodlight glare, urgent and desperate. "In the water—downriver!"
Brock's head snapped toward the shout, heart slamming against his ribs. The current heaved below, catching the light in violent flashes of white over black, foam churning where the water broke against submerged debris. And there—there—movement.
Two forms locked together, half-submerged, spinning in the drag like rag dolls. The current yanked them under, spit them back up. He caught a flash of dark hair plastered to a pale face, the glint of a hand clawing for purchase, a jacket—her jacket—dragged sideways by the current.
Harper.
She was still fighting. Still alive.
The relief lasted half a heartbeat before terror crushed it flat. The river was fast—too fast—dragging them both downstream toward the deeper channel where the current funneled between concrete pillars. If they hit those supports, the water would pin them under. They'd drown in seconds.
Knuckles and Kier were already moving, boots hammering the breakwall as they ran parallel to the current, gear clattering against stone, voices echoing over the roar of the river. "Go, go, go!" Knuckles bellowed, rifle slapping his back with every stride.
Brock didn't think. Couldn't afford to.
His body was already in motion, instinct collapsing into one single, driving imperative: move.
He tore forward, lungs burning, shoulder slamming Mason aside as he reached the edge. The wind tore at his face, at his clothes, carrying the scent of ice and silt. The river stretched below him like an open throat, black and bottomless, churning with a violence that promised death.
He didn't care.
Brock launched himself off the wall.
The world dropped away—wind screaming past his ears, gravity ripping him down. The cold hit before the water did, knifing through his clothes, his skin, straight into his bones. Then the river swallowed him whole.
The impact ripped the breath from his chest in a violent gasp. Ice. Shock. The current seized him instantly, a living thing that clamped around his ribs and yanked, dragging him under with the weight of a landslide. Water filled his ears, his nose, his mouth—choking, blinding, crushing. Needles drove into every nerve. His lungs screamed for air that wasn't there.
He kicked hard, forcing his eyes open against the sting, the cold so intense it felt like his skull was splitting. The world was black, formless, the current spinning him like debris. He couldn't tell up from down. Couldn't see anything but churning dark and the faint ghost of light somewhere above.
Then—movement. A shadow in the current, twenty feet ahead, tumbling in the surge.
Her.
Brock kicked harder, arms cutting through the water in brutal strokes. The current fought him, dragged at his legs, his gear, trying to pull him down, pull him under. His lungs burned. His body screamed. He ignored it all. He wasn't losing her. Not here. Not now.
The river hit like a wall.
One second there was air, gravity, the edge of the breakwall vanishing beneath her boots. The next there was nothing but black water and impact—violent, absolute, swallowing her whole. It punched the breath from her lungs before she could catch it, stole the scream before it could leave her throat. The cold wasn't cold at first. It was pain—white-hot, total, erasing every boundary between skin and current until she couldn't tell where her body ended and the river began.
The shock seized her muscles. Her limbs locked, useless, her chest clamping tight around empty lungs. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. The current spun her like debris, weightless and blind, dragging her down into the black.
Then something caught her—hard, brutal. A hand fisted in her jacket, yanking her sideways. An arm locked around her waist. The press of a body against hers, heavy and desperate.
Gunner.
They went under together, tangled, thrashing. The world became chaos—spinning dark, the roar of water filling her ears until it was the only sound left. She couldn't see. Couldn't tell up from down. Just pressure, cold, the burn starting deep in her chest as her lungs screamed for air that wasn't there.
His weight shoved her deeper. His hand found her shoulder, her neck, fingers digging in as he used her—used her—to push himself up toward the surface. She felt his knee drive into her ribs, and the pain detonated white through her chest. A cry tried to tear loose but the water swallowed it, filled her mouth instead, choking, gagging.
Harper twisted, wild, clawing at his arm, his vest, anything. Her nails raked fabric, then skin. She felt him flinch but his grip only tightened, dragging her down as he kicked upward. She was an anchor. A sacrifice. He'd drown her to save himself.
Her lungs convulsed. The need for air was agony now, a fire spreading through her chest, her throat. She couldn't hold it. Her body betrayed her—mouth opening, gasping—and the river poured in. Cold. Choking. She gagged, coughed, pulled in more water. It burned down her throat, into her lungs, and the panic spiked so sharp it obliterated thought.
Her vision sparked white at the edges, black creeping in from the sides. The cold gnawed deeper, sinking teeth into her bones, her spine, her skull. Her pulse stuttered, uneven, too slow. The world was narrowing—sound and pressure and the terrible, drowning dark.
But she fought anyway.
Her hand shot out, found his face. She drove her fingers into his eye, his mouth, raking, clawing with everything she had left. He jerked back, grip loosening for half a heartbeat, and she twisted in the opening, drove her elbow up into his jaw. The impact jolted through both of them, muted by the water but enough to break his hold.
She kicked. Hard. Desperate. Her boot connected with something solid—his gut, his chest—and suddenly she was free, spinning in the current, tumbling. She didn't know which way was up. Couldn't see light. Couldn't feel anything but cold and the water crushing her from every side.
Her lungs were screaming, convulsing, trying to pull in breath that wasn't there. Black spots danced across her vision. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, the cold leeching the strength from her muscles. She was fading. She could feel it—consciousness slipping, the edges of the world going soft and distant.
Then her hand broke the surface. She clawed upward with the last scrap of strength she had, kicking weak and frantic, her head breaching the surface with a desperate gasp. The night air hit her face like a slap—sharp, freezing, but it was air. She sucked it in, coughing, choking on the water still lodged in her throat, her lungs burning as they tried to remember how to work.
The floodlights spun above her, distant and fractured. The roar of the current filled her ears. She couldn't feel her hands, her feet. Her body was shutting down, hypothermia sinking claws into her core.
Then Gunner surfaced beside her, gasping, blood streaming from his nose, his mouth. Their eyes locked for a single, wild second—both of them drowning, both of them dying, neither willing to let the other survive.
He lunged.
His hand caught her hair, wrenched her head back, shoved her under again. Water closed over her face, her eyes, her mouth still open mid-gasp. She went down choking, the scream trapped in her chest as the river swallowed her whole again.
Her hands found his wrist, his arm, clawing, pulling. She couldn't get leverage. Couldn't breathe. Her ribs were on fire, her lungs were full of water, and the cold was everywhere, inside her, eating her alive from the marrow out.
She was dying. She knew it. Could feel it in the way her body was giving up, the way her vision was tunneling to a pinpoint of light that kept shrinking, shrinking—
Her knee came up on instinct, desperation, the last animal reflex of a body refusing to quit. It drove into his ribs—hard, brutal. She felt something give. Heard the muffled grunt even underwater. His grip faltered.
She twisted, shoved, broke free again. Her head broke the surface and she gasped—ragged, wet, barely pulling air before the current spun her again. Her arms flailed, trying to stay up, trying to find something solid. Her legs kicked but they were numb, heavy, barely answering.
Gunner surfaced a few feet away, coughing blood into the black water, his face a mask of pain and fury. He lunged again, slower this time, his strength failing too. His hand caught her jacket, yanked. They both went under.
The world was black. Cold. The roar of water swallowing everything. She couldn't fight anymore. Couldn't move. Her body was done. The cold had won. She felt herself sinking, Gunner's weight still tangled with hers, both of them dragging each other down into the dark.
Knuckles and Kier tore down the length of the breakwall, boots hammering wet concrete, the night around them breaking apart into floodlight and shadow. The air tasted like metal, river spray hanging cold in their throats. Mason was right behind them, the echo of his steps mixing with the low thunder of the current.
Knuckles hit the end of the wall first and didn't stop. He vaulted the rusted guard rail, dropped six feet onto the narrow strip of pebble shore below, landing in a crouch hard enough to send stones scattering into the black water. Kier followed a heartbeat later, sliding the last few feet on the slick embankment, his rifle clattering against his chest as he hit.
The river was alive, writhing under the floodlights—slabs of light breaking and re-forming across its surface. Knuckles swept the channel with his eyes, heart pounding so loud it drowned half the sound of the water. He'd seen them. He was sure. Two shapes—one pale, one dark—locked together, surfacing once before vanishing again in the pull.
Then nothing.
He waded to the edge, water foaming over his boots, soaking through to his skin. The cold bit instant and vicious. "Where the fuck are they—"
"Knuckles!" Mason shouted as he skidded down from the wall behind them, landing off balance, breath ragged.
"I saw her!" Knuckles yelled back, voice cracking with the strain. He jabbed a gloved hand toward the current, eyes locked on the spot where the surface had rippled seconds ago. "There—right fucking there! She went under right past that line of light—"
A burst of movement broke the surface upcurrent. White spray in the dark. A silhouette rising, gasping, arms driving water aside.
Brock.
He came up heaving, shoulders sheened silver in the floodlight, head whipping side to side like he was searching. His breath tore out in ragged gasps, visible even from the shore.
Kier shouted first, "Brock! That way!" He pointed downriver, voice ragged from the cold. "She went under there—by the bend!"
Knuckles moved toward the water's edge until it swallowed his shins, the current grabbing at him like it wanted to take him too. He kept his eyes locked on the black roll of the river where he'd last seen her vanish. "Come on, come on…" he muttered through his teeth, breath fogging thick.
He caught sight of Brock turning in the current, shoulders heaving, following the gesture toward the deeper channel. The current hammered him sideways, dragging him toward the concrete pillars, but he drove forward with that grim, mechanical determination that had carried them all through worse.
"You've got her, Brock!" Knuckles shouted, voice breaking across the wind. "Right there—she's right fucking there!"
The river roared back, indifferent. Brock's silhouette cut through the water, each stroke heavy, fighting the drag. His head dipped under once, came back up. Then again.
Then—he was gone.
No warning. No flail. No sound. One moment Brock's head was there in the floodlight's edge, water sheeting off his back in white ribbons; the next, the surface swallowed him whole.
Knuckles froze, heart slamming against his ribs. "Fuck—" he breathed, stepping deeper into the surf without realizing it. The river bit at his thighs, icy through his pants, pulling at his balance. "Where is he—where the fuck is he?"
Kier was already at his side, scanning the black expanse with his jaw locked tight, every muscle drawn sharp under his soaked jacket. "I don't see him," he said, voice low but shaking. "Do you see anything?"
Mason stumbled down the rocks behind them, dropping to one knee at the edge, eyes wide and bloodshot. "He went under—Jesus, did he go under on purpose? Did he find her?"
Knuckles didn't answer. His eyes darted between the shifting tongues of current, trying to find a break, a shadow, anything. The floodlight glare fractured on the surface, scattering gold and white and black until it all blurred together. The river looked alive, breathing, folding in on itself as if it were hiding them both.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
No shape broke the surface. No sound but the current's low growl and the hiss of wind cutting through the yard beyond.
Knuckles' chest tightened. His pulse hammered in his throat, his ears, too loud and too fast. "Come on, Brock," he muttered, barely audible over the water. "Come on, man, don't do this—"
Kier shifted beside him, breath coming shorter. "Should we—"
"Wait," Knuckles cut him off, but his voice cracked. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. The cold was nothing compared to the dread crawling up his spine, the terrible certainty settling in his gut.
They were gone. Both of them. The river had taken them.
Forty seconds.
"Knuckles—" Mason started, voice breaking.
Then—a ripple.
Knuckles blinked, thought it was nothing. Thought it was the current playing tricks. Then the surface broke open twenty feet downriver.
Brock exploded out of the water with a sound that was half gasp, half roar, his arm hooked tight across someone's chest, dragging another body up with him. Harper. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, hair plastered across her face, arms hanging limp at her sides. The current snapped her jacket against his ribs as he kicked for the shore, his movements jerky, uncoordinated, like his body was barely answering.
"There!" Knuckles shouted, already breaking into a run. "Move—move!"
They tore down the shoreline, boots skidding on wet stone, the river pulling Brock and Harper further downstream with every second. Knuckles' lungs burned, legs pumping hard, Kier and Mason right behind him. The current was faster than Brock could swim—he was losing ground, being dragged toward the deeper channel.
"Brock—angle left!" Knuckles yelled, voice ripping across the wind. "We're coming!"
Thirty feet. Twenty. Knuckles hit the water at full speed, the cold shocking through his thighs as he waded in. Pebbles shifted treacherously under his boots but he didn't slow. Kier splashed in beside him, arms outstretched.
"Brock—here! Right here!"
Brock's face was white under the lights—not pale, white, lips blue-gray, eyes unfocused and glassy. His jaw hung slack, breath tearing out in violent, broken gasps. He kicked toward them but his strokes were weak, uneven. The current kept pulling him sideways.
Knuckles reached out as Brock closed the distance, grabbed his forearm. The contact was slick, freezing, and Brock's grip felt wrong—too weak, fingers cramping. "I got you—come on—"
Brock shoved Harper forward with the last of his strength, her body dead weight between them. "Get her—" he gasped, voice shredded, barely intelligible. "Get her—"
Kier splashed in beside Knuckles, catching Harper under her other arm. Between them they hauled her toward the stones, her head rolling to the side, water streaming from her hair, her mouth. Her skin was gray-blue in the floodlight. Her eyes were closed.
She wasn't moving.
"Fuck—Harper, no—" Knuckles dragged her onto the stones, lowered her flat on her back. Water spilled from her mouth, her nose. Her chest wasn't moving. "Harper!"
Brock crawled out of the river behind them on his hands and knees, coughing hard, retching river water onto the stones. His whole body shook violently, uncontrollably, his arms barely holding him up. He tried to speak but nothing came out except ragged, gasping breaths.
Knuckles leaned over Harper, fingers finding her throat, pressing for a pulse. Nothing. "She's not breathing—" His voice cracked. He tilted her head back, swept her mouth with two fingers—water, debris—then pinched her nose and sealed his mouth over hers. Two breaths. Her chest rose slightly, then fell.
"Come on, kid," he muttered, moving to her sternum. He locked his hands, started compressions. One. Two. Three. "Come on—"
Kier dropped to his knees beside him, hands shaking. "What do you need—"
"Count," Knuckles snapped. He pushed down hard, rhythmic, mechanical. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. He tilted her head again, gave two more breaths. Her lips were ice-cold against his.
Brock crawled closer, shaking so hard his teeth chattered audibly, one hand reaching for her arm. His fingers locked around her wrist but his grip was weak, trembling. "Harper—" Her name came out slurred, broken. He looked like he was about to collapse.
Mason stood above them, silent, dripping, rifle hanging useless at his side. His face was pale, eyes locked on Harper's still body.
Thirty more compressions. Two breaths. Nothing.
"Harper!" Knuckles' voice broke. He pressed harder, faster. "Don't you fucking do this—breathe!"
Another cycle. Another. His arms burned. Sweat mixed with river water on his face. Kier's count became a mantra in the background.
Then—Harper's body convulsed.
A violent, full-body spasm that arched her back off the stones. Knuckles pulled back just as she rolled onto her side, gagging, retching. Water poured from her mouth in a torrent—dark, silty, streaked with bile. She coughed so hard her whole body shook, each breath a wet, tearing gasp that sounded like it was ripping her lungs apart.
"That's it—" Knuckles steadied her shoulder, leaning close. "Get it out, Harper. Get it all out."
She convulsed again, vomiting more water, more bile, her hands clawing weakly at the stones. Her eyes fluttered open—unfocused, wild, panicked. She tried to push herself up, tried to move, but her arms gave out and she collapsed back onto the stones, still coughing, still choking.
"You're okay," Knuckles said, voice tight, one hand on her back. "You're out. You're safe."
But Harper wasn't hearing him. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, darting side to side like she was still in the water, still fighting. Her hand shot out, grabbed at Knuckles' vest, grip weak but desperate. A sound tore from her throat—half sob, half scream—raw and broken.
"Harper—Harper, look at me." Knuckles caught her hand, squeezed. "You're out. You're on the shore. It's Knuckles. You're safe."
Her gaze finally focused on his face. Recognition flickered, then her expression crumpled. Another violent cough wracked her body, more water spilling from her lips. She was shaking—violent, uncontrollable tremors that rattled her teeth.
Kier was already stripping off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. "We gotta get her warm—she's hypothermic—"
A heavy sound behind them made Knuckles turn. Brock had collapsed onto his side, still shaking, one arm still outstretched toward Harper like he couldn't let go even now. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked seconds from passing out.
"Kier—Brock—" Knuckles started, but Kier was already moving, dropping beside him.
"Brock. Hey. Stay with me." Kier grabbed his shoulder, shook gently. Brock's eyes opened, unfocused. "You did it, man. She's breathing. But you gotta stay awake."
Brock's gaze drifted past Kier to Harper, still curled on her side, still coughing. His hand twitched toward her but he couldn't lift it. His lips moved but no sound came out.
Mason finally moved, dropping to his knees beside Harper. His hand hovered over her shoulder, shaking, like he was afraid to touch her. "Harper—God, Harper, I'm sorry—I didn't see him, I—"
She didn't respond. Just kept coughing, kept shaking, one hand pressed to her ribs like every breath hurt.
The floodlights buzzed overhead. The river roared on, indifferent, black and endless. Wind cut through the open stretch of shore, carrying the smell of ice and diesel from the yard beyond.
For a long moment, none of them moved. The only sounds were Harper's wet, gasping breaths and the water still dripping from all of them, pooling dark on the stones.
Knuckles exhaled slowly, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That's it," he murmured, voice rough. "That's fucking it. You're both out."
Harper's coughing finally eased, her breaths still ragged but steadier now, each one less like drowning. Her eyes were closed, body still trembling violently under Kier's jacket, but her hand had stopped clawing at the stones. She was here. Alive.
Brock's eyes cracked open at the sound of Knuckles' voice. His gaze found Harper first—still breathing, still fighting the cold—and something in his expression softened. His hand twitched toward her again, fingers brushing her sleeve before his strength gave out.
"Stay awake, Brock," Kier said firmly, hand on his shoulder. "We're getting you both out of here. Just stay with us."
Brock's jaw worked, trying to form words, but all that came out was a rough exhale. His eyes stayed on Harper for another beat, then finally closed.
"Mason," Knuckles snapped, rising to his feet. "Get Onyx. Bring the sedan as close to the breakwall as you can—service road, access gate, I don't care. We need to load them and get the hell out of here. Move."
Mason nodded once, already scrambling up the embankment, boots sending pebbles scattering as he climbed.
Knuckles looked down at Harper and Brock—both soaked, both shaking, both alive against every odd the river had thrown at them. The shipment could wait. The Syndicate could wait. Right now, getting them warm was the only thing that mattered.
"Kier, help me get them up. We're not losing them to hypothermia after all that."
Kier nodded, already moving to Harper. He crouched beside her, slipping one arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. "I've got you, Harper. Just hold on."
She didn't answer—couldn't—but her eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. Her head lolled against his chest as he lifted her, her body dead weight in his arms, limbs hanging loose. She was still shaking, violent tremors running through her, her breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps against his shoulder.
"Easy," Kier murmured, adjusting his grip as he stood. "We've got you."
Knuckles crouched beside Brock, gripped his arm—solid, anchoring. "Come on, boss. On your feet."
Brock's eyes opened, just slits, his gaze unfocused. His jaw worked but nothing came out except a rough exhale. Knuckles hauled him upright, Brock's weight sagging immediately against him, legs barely holding. His whole body shook, uncontrollable, his arm coming up instinctively to brace against Knuckles' shoulder.
"One foot in front of the other," Knuckles said firmly, shifting his grip to lock Brock's arm across his shoulders, his other hand clamped tight around Brock's ribs to keep him upright. "Just stay with me."
Brock's boots scraped stone, his steps uneven and dragging, but he moved. Knuckles took most of his weight, half-carrying him as they started up the embankment.
Together—Kier carrying Harper, Knuckles steadying Brock—they started toward the breakwall access point, moving as fast as the weight and the cold would allow.
─•────
The first thing Harper felt was heat.
Not comfort. Not warmth. Heat—pressed to her face and chest, heavy and foreign, sitting on her like a weight. Her body rejected it on instinct. Muscles bunched. Lungs worked shallow and raw. She couldn't tell if she was breathing or drowning—the line between the two had blurred somewhere in the black.
Then—sensation. Weight. Blankets layered and tucked. The hard plane of floor under her shoulder. The faint tick of the stove. The low animal crackle of fire.
She opened her eyes to smear-light—orange coil, dark beams, shadow. Cabin, she thought, the word dragging through silt. She was on the floor by the hearth, bundled. Facing Brock. He lay on his side inches away, close enough she could see the fine salt of dried river on his lashes. His hand lay near her ribs under the blankets, palm warm, fingers slack with sleep. His breathing was too deep and uneven, the exhausted kind a body drops into when there's nothing left to give.
Beyond him, the room took shape in pieces. Knuckles slouched in his chair by the hearth, chin dropped to his chest but shoulders still carrying tension—not quite asleep, never quite off. Mason lay sprawled on the couch against the far wall, one arm slung over his eyes, chest rising slow. The fire burned low between them all, coals pulsing orange, throwing just enough light to paint everyone in shades of exhaustion.
Harper blinked, tried to anchor to Brock's breathing. The room tilted. Steadied. Tilted again. The heat felt wrong—crowding, suffocating—but she told herself to stay. Just breathe. In. Out. Brock's here. They're all here.
The edges of the cabin softened, slipping. She felt herself start to sink back into the slow gray.
The nausea hit like a thrown hook.
No warning. No climb. It punched up from her gut hot and mean, ripped up her throat, turned her spine to wire. She jerked under the blankets, hands tangling in wool, the weight trapping her legs.
Air vanished. Panic flashed white.
A sound tore out of her—half-gasp, half-keening—and she fought the covers, clawing for an edge. The movement jolted Brock awake; his breath caught and broke, and his hand found her hip through the blankets, weak but urgent.
"Hey—hey." His voice was wrecked glass. "Harper, I'm right here."
She couldn't answer. Her mouth flooded with acid. She tore the blankets down, weak arms shaking, ribs screaming like snapped wire. She tried to push up, to get to the hallway, to anywhere that wasn't this, and made it two steps free of the blankets before her knees quit.
She hit the boards hard on all fours, hair falling forward into her face. The blankets slid away, Brock's oversized shirt riding up her thighs as she went down. Cold air hit bare skin—legs exposed from mid-thigh down, nothing underneath. Heat flared through her face, wrong heat, shame trying to surface through the nausea, but her stomach gave her no time to think about it.
Knuckles was out of his chair before the sound of her hitting the floor had faded. "Don't move, Brock," he said, his voice cutting across the room—solid, controlled. He was beside her in two strides, already reaching for the nearest blanket and throwing it across her legs, tucking it firm around her thighs before his hand found her shoulder. "I've got you, kid. Stay with me."
Behind her, she heard Brock trying to push himself up, his breath coming hard and fast. "Harper—"
"Mason, with him," Knuckles added, not looking away from her. "Keep him down."
"I got him." Mason was already there, moving from the couch to drop beside Brock on the floor. His hand came across Brock's chest—firm but careful. "Easy, brother. She's covered. They've got her."
Brock's hand fisted in the blanket beneath him, every muscle straining against Mason's hold, his eyes locked on Harper. "I need to—"
"You need to stay put," Mason said quietly. "You're still hypothermic. Let them work."
"Breathe, Harper," Knuckles murmured, his voice dropping low and steady, meant only for her. One hand stayed anchored on her shoulder while the other checked that the blanket was secure. "Let it come. Don't fight."
Footsteps in the hall—fast, soft. "What—?" Kier's voice, rough with sleep, then the slap of bare feet on wood as he rounded the corner from the back room. He took in the scene in a glance and didn't ask again. He disappeared back down the hall and returned seconds later with a metal basin and a damp cloth, dropping to his knees in front of Harper. "Here," he said, his voice kind and close as he positioned the basin under her chin. "I'm right here."
Her body answered before she could. The first heave bent her double, violent enough to tear a sound from her throat she didn't recognize. Heat and bile surged up—salt, iron, river. She gagged, the noise too big for the small room, and tried to suck in air, got acid instead. Tears burst from her eyes, hot and blind.
Knuckles moved behind her, his arm banding across her ribs just below her breasts, his chest a solid wall at her back. He took her weight as she pitched forward, keeping her from collapsing into the basin. "I've got you," he said, voice rough but steady. His other hand pressed flat between her shoulder blades. "Just breathe. Let it happen."
"Easy now," Kier said from in front of her, one hand holding the basin steady, the other gathering her hair and pulling it back from her face in a practiced motion. "Right here. You're okay."
She was bracketed between them—Knuckles holding her upright from behind, his arm an iron bar across her ribs, Kier kneeling in front with the basin, both of them keeping her from falling apart completely.
Another convulsion hit—harder. She pitched forward with a wet choke. Knuckles took the weight, his arm tightening across her ribs, his hand between her shoulders pressing her forward just enough to let gravity help. Her back arched, stomach hollowing, another wave forcing its way up through clenched teeth.
"Don't fight it," Knuckles murmured near her ear, his breath close enough she could feel it at her temple. "Let it out, kid. You're alright."
She shook her head weakly, a muffled "No—" breaking between spasms, but her body kept going. Every heave dragged a sound out of her chest, raw and small and terrible. Her throat was on fire, each convulsion scraping tissue already shredded from the river water, and she could taste blood mixing with the bile.
Kier kept his tone low and constant, a rhythm to breathe by even though she couldn't. "That's it. You're doing fine. I know it hurts. Just breathe when you can."
She tried, choking on the effort. The next spasm wrung her so hard she nearly slipped from Knuckles' grasp; he shifted his weight, pulling her more securely against him, his arm a vise across her ribs. She flinched at the pressure against her bruised chest, a sharp inhale catching in her throat.
"Easy, easy," he whispered, loosening his hold just slightly but not letting go. "I know. I'm sorry. But I've got you."
Her whole body trembled against him, slack between convulsions. From across the small space, she could hear Brock's breathing—too fast, too shallow, the sound of someone barely holding it together.
"She's okay," Mason said quietly, his voice meant for Brock. "Look—they've got her. She's gonna be okay."
Kier used the cloth to wipe her mouth, slow and gentle, then repositioned the basin as another wave built. "Still with us, yeah?"
She nodded once, too fast, the motion sparking another fit. The retch came up dry this time—just air and pain—and she folded forward again, arms dangling useless, body jerking. Knuckles' arm took all her weight; Kier steadied the basin with both hands.
"It's alright," Knuckles said, his voice low against her hair. "You're past the worst. I've got you. Breathe for me."
She tried, dragging air through a throat that felt flayed open. Each breath hitched and scraped, but it was air. Her body shuddered, the violent convulsions fading into continuous tremors that she couldn't control.
Kier pressed the cloth to her lips again, dabbing carefully. "Good. That's good. You're okay." He shifted closer on his knees, his free hand coming up to rub her arm through the thin shirt fabric, working warmth into her skin with steady friction.
Knuckles stayed anchored behind her, his broad hand still pressed between her shoulder blades, catching every tremor that ran through her. When he felt her weight sag fully, no longer fighting, he looked over her head at Kier and gave a small nod.
"Let's ease her down," he said quietly.
Between them, they lowered her slowly—Knuckles supporting her from behind, Kier guiding her forward—until she was sitting back on her heels, hunched over the basin. Her arms trembled when she tried to brace herself.
One more convulsion hit—weaker this time, mostly dry heaving—and then it was over. The only sound left was Harper's breath coming in thin, broken gasps, and the soft scrape of cloth as Kier wiped her mouth clean.
Heat surged through her skin; a beat later cold shook her, small at first, then fast and fine. Her teeth knocked once, then again, a soft clack. Her hands trembled so badly she couldn't get them to lay flat on her thighs.
"She's freezing," Kier said quietly, glancing at Knuckles.
"Yeah," Knuckles answered. He kept one hand on her back, steady and warm. "Harper, we're gonna get you back to Brock, okay? Just a few feet. Can you help us or do we carry you?"
She tried to answer but her throat wouldn't work. She managed a small shake of her head—couldn't help, couldn't move.
"Alright. We've got you."
Knuckles shifted his grip, one arm sliding under her shoulders. Kier set the basin aside and moved to her other side, his arm mirroring Knuckles' position. "On three," Kier said. "One, two—"
They lifted her together, taking all her weight between them, and carried her the few feet back to where Brock lay on the floor by the hearth. Her legs dragged, unable to support her, the blanket Knuckles had thrown over her slipping. Kier caught it with one hand, kept it tucked around her.
Mason shifted back as they approached, releasing his hold on Brock. "She's here, man. Right here."
The moment they lowered her within reach, Brock's arms came around her, pulling her against his chest. His grip was weak but desperate, his whole body shaking almost as badly as hers. He pressed his mouth to her hair, his breath hitching. "I've got you," he said, voice breaking. "I've got you."
Knuckles and Kier settled her carefully, arranging the blankets around them both, tucking edges and making sure she was covered. Harper's jaw rattled, teeth chattering so hard she bit her tongue. The tremors sharpened with the come-down—tiny, relentless quakes that ran from hand to shoulder to ribs.
She tucked her face into the hollow under Brock's collarbone, breathing smoke and wool and him, trying to stop shaking and failing. Underneath the physical tremors was something worse—the hot crawl of humiliation burning through her chest. Kier and Knuckles had seen her like that, half-dressed and falling apart, had held her through it, had covered her, had—
"You're covered," Kier said quietly from nearby, as if he could read her thoughts. He was crouched at the foot of the blankets, his voice gentle. "And nobody saw anything that matters. You're okay, Harper."
The words should have helped but the shame still burned, mixing with the pain in her throat and the exhaustion pulling at her bones.
"Harper." Knuckles' voice, closer. She opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside them, not hovering, just there. "I'm not moving. Close your eyes if it helps."
She tried. Her eyelids felt like they had grit under them. The fire threw a soft, uneven light across the boards; the smell of acid had thinned to metal and smoke. Her breath sawed a little, caught a little, found a smaller, livable rhythm.
"Hands," Brock murmured against her hair, and Harper realized she'd fisted her fingers so hard her knuckles hurt. He pried them gently open and slipped his thumb into her palm so she had something alive to hold onto. "That's it."
Her teeth tapped, tapped, tapped. Brock's thumb moved in slow circles where her pulse hammered, unbothered by the jitter. Knuckles stayed close, one hand resting open on the blanket near her shoulder—an offering. She uncurled her other hand from where it was pressed against Brock's chest and reached for it without looking up. His fingers closed around hers—not tight, just sure—and held.
Time went loose. The shakes didn't stop, but they faded from violent to insistent. Every so often a cough punched up; she breathed around it, each one scraping her raw throat. The blanket weight settled. The fire crackled.
Kier rose and crossed to the stove. Metal clicked; water poured. "I'll put the kettle on," he said quietly. "Something warm for when she can handle it."
"Good," Knuckles said.
Minutes passed. Harper lost count. The tremors continued, exhaustion dragging at her, but the nausea had finally released its grip. Her body felt wrung out, hollow, every muscle aching.
Kier returned with steam curling ahead of him and set a mug within Brock's reach. He didn't offer it to Harper yet, just placed it where it would be easy when she could stomach it. "You need anything?" he asked Brock, though his eyes flicked to Harper, checking.
Brock shook his head without lifting it from where his cheek rested against Harper's hair.
"Alright." Kier crouched again, his hand returning to rest lightly on Harper's shoulder through the blanket. "I'm staying right here. Both of you just rest."
The cabin narrowed to a small circle: fire, floor, blankets, the three men she trusted most in the world. Mason had moved back to the couch but was sitting upright now, elbows on his knees, keeping watch in his own way. The wind nosed at the boards and moved on. Somewhere outside, snow ticked off a branch; somewhere inside, the stove popped.
"You with me?" Brock asked finally, his voice down to the thread he had left.
Harper nodded once against his chest. It took more strength than she expected, but she managed it.
"Good." He shifted slightly, arms tightening around her, trying to share what little warmth he had. His forehead came down to rest against hers. "Sleep now. I've got you."
She let her eyes shut. The heat still sat wrong around the edges—too much, too heavy—but it was a better wrong now. The kind that seeped into bone instead of pressing down. The kind that promised she wouldn't slip back into the cold.
Kier's quiet murmur drifted from somewhere nearby, words too low to catch. Knuckles' hand stayed around hers, his thumb brushing once across her knuckles. Mason shifted on the couch, the springs creaking soft.
Brock's arms held her as tight as his exhausted body could manage. "Right here," he whispered again, softer. "Not going anywhere."
She believed him.
Darkness came gentle this time, not dragging but lowering. Not the black of the river but something warmer, safer. The fire crackled. Brock held on. Knuckles kept watch. Kier stayed close.
And for now, that was enough.