We pushed through the thick undergrowth, our breath coming in ragged gasps.

Finally, Rowan stopped beneath the wide canopy of a massive oak tree.

He leaned against the trunk, chest heaving, using his body to block the rain from Clara.

I collapsed against his shoulder, my knees trembling. “Is she okay?” I gasped.

Rowan gently peeled back the wet layers of the wool blanket.

In the faint, gray light of the storm, I saw her face.

Clara’s small eyes were open, blinking against the rain.

She wasn’t crying.

She was looking up at Rowan, her tiny, pale hand clutching the collar of his wet shirt.

“She’s breathing,” Rowan whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion he had kept hidden for months. “She’s warm.”

A sharp rustling in the bushes nearby made us both freeze.

Rowan’s hand went instantly to the holster at his hip.

The brush parted.

A figure stepped into the small clearing, wearing a dark, hooded rain jacket.

In his hand was a small tracking receiver that glowed faint green.

It was Marcus.

“We have to move,” Marcus said, his voice tight. “The perimeter patrols are deploying flares.”