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."

Isolde sat behind the massive mahogany desk in the library of Powers Manor. The room was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock.

She held a newspaper in her hands. The Capital Financial Times.

The headline screamed in bold black ink: VANCE SHIPPING EMPIRE COLLAPSES AMID SAFETY SCANDAL.

Isolde traced the headline with a manicured fingernail. A cold, satisfied smile played on her lips.

In her past life, the Vance family had been untouchable. Their ships had leaked oil into the pristine bays of the southern coast, killing the wildlife and ruining the local economy. They had covered it up, paid off the inspectors, and used their profits to fund the opposition party-the party that eventually executed her family.

Not this time.

This time, Isolde had leaked the safety reports three months early. She had shorted their stock through a shell company.

The door opened. Duke Elliot walked in, carrying two cups of coffee. He placed one on the desk.

"You look like the cat that just ate the canary," he said, leaning against the edge of the desk.

"The canary was poisonous," Isolde said, folding the paper. "I just made sure it choked the right predator."

Elliot took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "The Vance heir had a hunting accident this morning. Shot in the leg. They say he'll never walk without a cane."

Isolde didn't blink. "Karma is efficient."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Elliot asked. "Karma?"

"We call it necessary housekeeping," Isolde said. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Is the car ready? Julian and Stone are landing in an hour."

"The motorcade is waiting," Elliot said. He set his cup down. "Isolde."

She stopped. "Yes?"

"You're shaking."

Isolde looked at her hands. They were trembling slightly.

It wasn't fear of the Vance family. It was the date.

October 14th.

In her previous life, this was the day her sister, Seraphina, died in childbirth. Stone hadn't been there. He had been delayed at the front. Seraphina had given up. She had bled out calling his name.

"I'm fine," Isolde lied. "Just excited to see them."

"You're a terrible liar," Elliot said. He walked over and took her hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding. "Whatever happens, we handle it. Together."

Isolde nodded. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't say, My sister is scheduled to die today.

They got into the armored limousine. The drive to the airfield was tense. Isolde kept checking her watch. Every minute felt like an hour.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her chest. A phantom pain. Her intuition-the strange, somatic link she had to her timeline-was screaming.

"Turn around," Isolde said.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror, confused. "My Lady?"

"Turn around!" Isolde shouted. Her voice cracked. "Go to the Stone residence! Now!"

"Isolde, the plane..." Elliot started.

"Seraphina," Isolde gasped, clutching her chest. "She's early. Something is wrong. I can feel it."

Elliot didn't argue. He pressed the intercom button. "Change of plans. Stone Residence. Code Red speed."

The heavy car swerved, tires screeching as it pulled a U-turn across the highway.

Isolde pulled out her phone and dialed the Stone house.

Busy signal.

She dialed again. Busy.

"Pick up," she hissed. "Pick up, damn it."

She looked at Elliot, her eyes wide with panic. "If we're late... if Stone isn't there..."

"He's landing now," Elliot said, typing furiously on his own phone. "I'm sending a helicopter to the tarmac to pick him up. He'll meet us there."

Isolde stared out the window as the city blurred past. She prayed to a God she wasn't sure believed in her anymore.

Change the fate, she begged. I gave you Vance. Give me Seraphina.