"Get him on the table! Now!"

General Stone's voice was a roar of panic. He had carried Julian into the surgical tent himself, his uniform stained with the dark, toxic blood of the man who had just saved his life.

Dr. Aris, the chief surgeon, took one look at the wound and went pale.

"Clear the room!" Aris shouted at the orderlies. "Get the suction!"

Imogen crashed through the tent flaps. She was covered in dust, her face streaked with tears. A guard tried to stop her, but she fought him off with the ferocity of a wild animal.

"Julian!"

"Hold her back!" Stone ordered, but his voice lacked its usual steel. He was staring at the monitor.

Julian was convulsing. His body arched off the table, his teeth clenched so hard they threatened to crack. The heart rate monitor was screaming-a frantic, staccato rhythm that was too fast to sustain.

Dr. Aris was examining the wound. "It's Viper-X," he whispered. "Look at the necrosis. It's spreading instantly."

"Antidote," Stone barked. "Give him the antidote."

Aris looked up, his eyes hopeless. "The supply depot was hit, General. The refrigeration unit is gone. We have nothing."

The silence that followed was louder than the explosions outside.

"Call the capital," Stone said. "Get a medevac."

"He has minutes, General," Aris said, his voice trembling. "Not hours. Minutes. The neurotoxin will paralyze his diaphragm and he will suffocate."

Imogen fell to her knees. The world was ending. Right here, in this dirty tent, under the flickering halogen lights.

Minutes.

Then, a memory flashed in her mind. A small, cold glass vial.

Isolde.

Before they left, Isolde had pressed a small, chilled kit into Imogen's hand. "It's a new broad-spectrum antivenom from the Powers labs," she had said, her eyes intense, almost scary. "Experimental. But if anyone gets hurt... really hurt... use the blue vial. Don't ask questions. Just use it." At the time, Imogen had thought her sister was being paranoid. Now, it felt like prophecy.

Imogen scrambled for her med-kit, which was still strapped to her waist. Her fingers were slippery with sweat and blood. She ripped the zipper open.

There it was. A small, unmarked blue ampoule.

She grabbed a syringe.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Aris yelled as Imogen rushed the table.

"Get away from him!" Imogen shoved the doctor aside. She didn't care about protocol. She didn't care about sterility.

"Imogen, stop!" Stone stepped forward.

"Trust me!" Imogen screamed, turning to face the General. She held the syringe up like a weapon. "Isolde gave this to me. She said it would save him."

Stone froze. Isolde. The woman who had predicted the Levine scandal. The woman who seemed to know things before they happened.

Stone looked at Julian's face. His lips were turning blue. He was dying.

"Let her do it," Stone said.

"General, that's insanity!" Aris protested. "We don't know what's in that!"

"Do it!" Stone roared.

Imogen didn't hesitate. She jammed the needle into Julian's thigh, right through the fabric of his pants, and depressed the plunger.

For ten seconds, nothing happened.

The monitor continued its frantic beeping. Julian's chest heaved in shallow, useless gasps.

Then, he went rigid.

His eyes flew open. They were completely dilated, black pools of terror. He let out a strangled cry, his back arching so violently that his bones popped.

"He's going into cardiac arrest!" Aris yelled, reaching for the paddles.

"No, wait," Imogen whispered. She grabbed Julian's hand. It was ice cold. "Stay with me. Please, Julian. Stay with me."

She squeezed his hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

Suddenly, Julian gasped. It was a massive, sucking intake of air, like a drowning man breaking the surface.

The monitor went silent for a second, then beeped.

Beep.

Beep.

Slower. Stronger.

The black lines spreading from the wound on his side stopped. They didn't recede, but they stopped moving toward his heart.

Dr. Aris stared at the readouts. "Impossible," he muttered. "His vitals... they're stabilizing. The toxin is being neutralized."

Stone slumped against the metal table, the gun slipping from his fingers. He wiped a hand over his face, smearing soot and sweat.

Imogen dropped her forehead onto Julian's chest. She could hear his heart beating. It was erratic, it was weak, but it was there.

"He's alive," she sobbed. "He's alive."

Outside, the gunfire began to fade. The reinforcements had arrived.

Stone straightened up. He looked at the empty blue vial on the tray. He looked at Imogen.

"What was in that, Lady Imogen?" he asked quietly.

Imogen looked at the vial. She had no idea. But she knew one thing.

"A miracle," she said. "My sister gave us a miracle."

The morning light was cruel. It cut through the gaps in the canvas tent, sharp and bright, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Julian opened his eyes.

Pain was the first thing he felt. A dull, throbbing ache in his side that radiated down to his hip. His mouth tasted like metal and ash.

He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, like it was made of lead. He turned his head slightly.

Imogen was asleep in a plastic chair next to his cot. Her head was resting on the mattress, her hand clutching his. She looked wrecked. Her face was streaked with dried mud and tear tracks. Her scrubs were stained with dark spots.

His blood.

Julian squeezed her hand. His fingers were weak, barely a flutter.

Imogen jerked awake. She sat up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"Julian?" Her voice was a croak. Her eyes widened, scanning his face as if checking for ghosts.

"Hey," he rasped. It hurt to speak.

Imogen burst into tears. She didn't cry gracefully. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault. You almost died because of me. I shouldn't be here. I'm a curse."

Julian frowned. He hated seeing her cry. He tried to sit up, but the pain slammed him back down. He groaned.

"Don't move!" Imogen panicked, hovering over him but afraid to touch him. "The doctor said you need to be still."

"Imogen," Julian whispered. "Stop."

"I'm going to request a transfer," she rambled, wiping her eyes frantically. "When we get back, I'll break the engagement. I can't let you get hurt again. I'm not worth it."

Julian reached out. It took every ounce of strength he had. He grabbed the front of her scrub top and pulled.

It wasn't a strong pull, but it was enough to bring her face inches from his.

"If you try to leave me," he said, his voice low and gritty, "I will rip this IV out of my arm and chase you down. And I will bleed all over the sand doing it."

Imogen stared at him, shocked into silence. Julian Harris was a gentleman. He was a scholar. He didn't make threats.

"You..." she stammered.

"I didn't save Stone," Julian said, looking straight into her eyes. "I mean, I did. But when I ran out there... I wasn't thinking about the chain of command. I wasn't thinking about the war."

He paused to catch his breath.

"I saw the angle," he said. "If he missed Stone, he was heading for the medical tent. He was heading for you."

Imogen's breath hitched.

"I took that knife for you, Imogen," Julian said. "So don't you dare tell me you're not worth it. You are the only thing worth dying for in this godforsaken desert."

Imogen let out a soft, broken sound. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were trembling.

"You are an idiot," she whispered against his skin.

"I'm a doctor," he corrected, a faint smile touching his lips. "I know anatomy. I knew where to get stabbed."

"Liar."

"Okay, liar," he admitted. "Can I have some water?"

Imogen laughed, a wet, sniffly sound. She grabbed a cup with a straw and held it to his lips. He drank greedily.

When he finished, he rested his head back on the pillow, exhausted but content. He watched her. She was fussing with his blanket, checking the monitors. She was alive. She was here.

"Imogen?"

"Yes?"

"That proposal I mentioned before the mortars hit..."

Imogen froze. She looked at him, her expression softening.

"Ask me again," she said. "When we're not covered in blood."

"Deal," Julian closed his eyes. "But the answer better be yes."

"Go to sleep, Julian," she whispered, stroking his hair.

He drifted off, the feeling of her hand on his head anchoring him to the world of the living.

The C-17 Globemaster was a beast. It sat on the tarmac like a dormant dragon, its rear ramp lowered to swallow the wounded.

The engines were already spooling up, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in the chest.

Julian refused the stretcher. He sat in a wheelchair, his face pale, his side heavily bandaged, but his back straight. Imogen pushed him up the ramp.

Inside, the cargo hold was cavernous and dim. It smelled of hydraulic fluid, sweat, and aviation fuel. Rows of seats lined the sides, and stretchers were secured in the center.

General Stone was already strapped in near the front. He nodded at them as they passed. He looked older today. The weight of the command, the near-death experience, it sat heavy on his shoulders.

Imogen secured Julian's wheelchair into the locking mechanism on the floor. She sat in the jump seat next to him, buckling her four-point harness.

"Comfortable?" she shouted over the noise.

"Never better," Julian lied. The vibration of the plane was sending spikes of pain through his wound, but he wouldn't show it.

The ramp closed, sealing out the blinding desert sun. The hold plunged into a red-lit gloom.

The takeoff was rough. The plane shuddered as it fought for altitude. Imogen reached out and gripped Julian's hand. Her palm was sweaty.

Julian looked at her. In the red light, she looked fierce. Beautiful.

Once they leveled off, the roar of the engines settled into a steady drone. The soldiers around them began to doze off, exhaustion taking over.

Julian unbuckled his harness.

"What are you doing?" Imogen hissed.

"Come here," he said. He tugged on her hand.

Imogen looked around. No one was watching. She unbuckled and leaned in close, kneeling on the metal floor between his knees.

"You need to rest," she whispered.

"I need you," he said.

He reached into his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate. He pulled out a small object.

It wasn't a diamond. It was a brass shell casing. A 9mm casing. He had polished it against his uniform until it shone like gold.

"I didn't have time to go to Tiffany's," he murmured. "I found this on the floor of the tent after the attack."

Imogen stared at the piece of brass. It was a piece of garbage. Debris of war.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

"Julian..."

"Imogen Sterling," he said, his voice barely audible over the engines. "We survived hell. I don't want to do heaven without you either."

He took her left hand. The brass casing was too big for her finger, but he slid it onto her thumb. It fit perfectly.

"Will you marry me?"

Imogen didn't answer with words. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

It wasn't a movie kiss. It was awkward. Their noses bumped. She tasted of stale coffee and he tasted of painkillers. But it was desperate and real.

She pulled back, breathless. "Yes."

She looked at the brass ring on her thumb. "It's perfect."

"It's temporary," Julian promised. "The real one is in the Powers family vault. Isolde promised me I could raid it."

Imogen laughed. She rested her head on his knee, holding his hand against her cheek.

"We're going home," she whispered.

Julian looked out the small porthole window. The desert was gone. Below them, the ocean stretched out, vast and blue.

"Home," he repeated. But his eyes narrowed slightly. He knew the capital. He knew the politics. The desert had bullets, but the capital had whispers and knives in the dark.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "The sharks will be waiting."

Imogen kissed his knuckles. "Let them come. We're shark hunters now."