Chapter 654:
Deandre confessed, “Maybe you’re right, but I’m just worried. I don’t want her in danger again, or sacrificing herself for us. We should be the ones protecting her, not the other way around.”
Marcus’ tone grew firm. “That’s the very problem. You know Rylie carries her own scars and obsessions. What we can do is protect ourselves and give her space. Don’t forget, she’s a sniper who could wipe out a small gang on her own. Never underestimate her.”
Deandre fell quiet, unable to argue further.
After days of unforgiving storms, the sun finally broke through.
Rylie guided her wheelchair toward Brad’s tent, where Brock and the others stood watch. They started to speak, but she raised her hand, telling them to stay quiet.
Inside, Frieda’s voice floated out.
She was setting down a tray, her tone syrupy. “After an illness, it’s best to start light. I made chicken soup and a few nourishing dishes. Last time, it never reached you, so please eat more this time.”
Brad’s voice came steady. “What didn’t reach me?”
Frieda pretended to reply casually, “Oh, nothing. It was when you carried Felix down the mountain. I sent food, but Rylie stopped me and told me to throw it away. I don’t know why she keeps targeting me.”
She sighed softly as she added, “I only want to care for you.”
Brad’s answer was calm, without a ripple of emotion. “It’s not targeting. She has her reasons.”
Frieda had hoped for his defense. Instead, his words cut deeper. She forced a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“No. Definitely,” Brad said, lifting the bowl and taking a sip. “She’s a doctor. She knows better than you how to treat patients.”
“Right, my knowledge is limited.” Frieda gripped her handkerchief, unable to go on. Rising, she said, “Take your time. I’ll leave you to it.”
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Brad replied flatly, “Alright.”
As Frieda stepped out, she nearly collided with Rylie.
“Dr. Owen is here to check on Admiral Morgan,” Brock explained quickly.
Frieda forced a smile. “He’s eating now. You can go in.”
Rylie gave a brief nod and wheeled inside.
The tent smelled sharply of disinfectant.
Brad lay half-reclined on the cot, one leg bandaged and raised, his shirt loose and half unbuttoned, white bandages peeking beneath. The soft hum of her wheelchair made him lift his head.
Their eyes met.
“You’re awake?” His voice was deeper than usual, rough around the edges. “How’s your leg?”
Rylie rolled closer. “No problem. Felix is stable. Deandre sent him by helicopter to the hospital.”
“That’s good.” Brad lowered his gaze and kept eating Frieda’s food.
Rylie’s eyes lingered on the bowl, but she said nothing. After losing so much blood, he needed it.
.
.
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