Chapter 327

The doorway filled with a figure, but it wasn’t the powerful man she knew. It was a silhouette of pain. Dallas was in a lightweight tactical wheelchair, being maneuvered to the top of the ramp by a tall woman behind him. His left arm was in a sling, a bandage wrapped around his head. He looked exhausted, covered in dust and dried blood, but his posture was rigid — refusing to show weakness.

“Dallas!” Eliza screamed. Tears blinded her.

She was ten feet away when he was wheeled onto the tarmac.

But he wasn’t alone.

The woman who had been pushing the chair stepped out behind him. She was tall, with wild curly hair and a combat vest over a tight tank top. She placed a hand on Dallas’s good shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

Dallas didn’t pull away. He leaned his head back slightly, a flicker of an almost-smile on his lips.

Eliza skidded to a halt.

Then Azalea stepped out. She looked unharmed, but her face was stormy. She saw Eliza and started running toward her — but Dallas put a hand out, blocking her path. He said something sharp. Azalea looked at Eliza, her eyes filled with tears, then looked down at her shoes. She didn’t move.

Eliza stood there, the wind whipping her hair across her face. Dallas looked up. He saw her.

For a moment, his eyes flared with something — relief? Pain?

Then the mask slammed down. His face went blank. Cold.

He turned to the woman — Yvonne — and said something that made her laugh. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, intimate and possessive, as she began to push his chair.

Eliza felt as though she had been slapped.

Dallas wheeled toward the waiting cars with the woman at his side. He passed right by Eliza as if she were a stranger.

“Dallas?” Eliza whispered.

He stopped the chair. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the horizon.

“You’re alive,” she said.

“Unfortunately,” Dallas said. His voice was gravel.

“Who is she?” Eliza pointed at the woman.

Dallas finally looked at her. His eyes were empty.

“This is Yvonne,” he said. “She’s the one who pulled me out of the fire. She’s the one who saved me.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “She’s the one I need. Not you.”

The wind on the tarmac seemed to suck the sound out of the air, leaving only Dallas’s brutal words ringing in Eliza’s ears.

Not you.

Eliza stared at the woman — Yvonne. She was striking in a rough, dangerous way. There was dirt under her fingernails and a pistol strapped to her thigh. She looked at Eliza with bored, predatory amusement.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Koch,” Yvonne drawled, her voice smoky. She tightened her grip on Dallas’s shoulder. “He talks about you. Mostly about how much you worry.”

“Azalea.” Eliza ignored the woman, looking past them to the teenager. “Are you okay?”

Azalea looked up, her eyes red. She opened her mouth — to speak, to scream he’s lying! — but Dallas’s hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. It was a subtle signal, but Azalea flinched.

“I’m fine,” Azalea mumbled, her voice flat. “I just want to go home.”