Sera's tone of it wasn't a command; it was concern, and Lachlan felt it more than heard it.
The truck climbed the rise. He lined the man with good footing and waited for the suspension to lift.
The hum in his bones matched the engine note.
She'd kiss you for this.
He pulled the trigger.
The man folded and slid. The others grabbed for him and turned the roof into chaos. The driver jerked the wheel. The hook whipped the rear window. The transport hit the melted patch that looked dry and learned the lie.
When he opened them, the flatbed's cage had slid off the bed and lay on its side, panels twisted. The thing inside stayed in the shadow of the wreck and did not test the gaps.
He knew why.
It felt Sera through smoke and distance and would rather be ignorant than wrong.
The wind shoved heat toward the ridge again. A new engine note rose from the compound—another truck, different gearing, heavier. The South Gate wasn't done. Marrow didn't fold on one burn.
