Rain lashed against the retreat’s canvas walls, thunder rumbling like a warning beneath the desert sky. Selix stalked across the sand, hair slicked to her jaw, face sharp as lightning. Her crisp white shirt clung to her narrow shoulders, half-unbuttoned, sleeves shoved to the elbows. Every muscle in Calder’s arms tensed as he watched her, thunderlight flickering across the hard lines of his jaw. He leaned, boots planted wide, arms folded—posture a dare and a defense. Selix stopped inches from him, her eyes meeting his with a heat that felt like accusation.

“You’re enjoying this,” she breathed, voice raw.

Calder’s mouth twitched, his dimple flickering. “You like control, don’t you, Selix?” His tone was smoke and provocation.

She scoffed, but he saw the tremor in her throat, saw the storm not just above but within. “That what you think this is?” she dared, stepping closer still. Raindrops streaked down her cheekbones; her lips were parted, trembling, but stubborn as ever.

Their bodies collided—a hungry, furious collision. Calder’s hands caught her waist, fingers digging into soaked silk, dragging her against him. Selix gasped, the sound half-struggle, half-relief. Their mouths crashed together, open and fierce; the taste was rain and something sweeter—loss, maybe, or victory. Selix hardened her grip, nails scraping Calder’s jaw, pulling him deeper, into wildness. The dune beneath them threatened to vanish, sand shifting, sky pulsing with each heartbeat.

Shirts wrenched loose, the scrape of teeth and hands urgent, every movement a contest—who would yield, who would win. Selix closed her eyes, let herself fall; Calder, usually so composed, trembled with each breath against her skin, the sound guttural and needy. She wanted to be seen and undone, even as her hands flexed for control. For the first time, she let him see the flash of fear in her, raw and pleading, lost between ecstasy and surrender.

A tremor ran through Calder’s muscles, his certainty dissolving. He pressed his forehead to hers, breath hot and uneven. “You break all my rules,” he whispered, voice cracking with confession.

Briefly, Selix let herself just hold him—not lover, not rival, but something in between. She pressed her palm to his chest where his heart hammered wild. Vulnerability exposed her, but it was Calder this time who closed the space, his kiss slow, almost reverent, and far more dangerous.

Elsewhere, lightning lit the tented walkways. Izelle, hips cocked in black jeans and a threadbare tee, arched an eyebrow at Ryven, who lingered at the bar, rainwater beading down his arms. Ryven’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered from her lips to her eyes, a contained storm of his own. Her smirk faltered at the way he looked at her—as though she’d unravel him if he let her close.

“Jealous?” Izelle’s voice was playful, but there was a hitch to it.

His reply was slow, measured, the edge of trust and accusation. “Should I be?”

She snorted but stepped towards him, fingertips dancing up his sleeve, challenging his distance. “Maybe.”

He pulled away, jaw tight. “You like being wanted by everyone, don’t you?” His voice was rawer than he meant it to be. For a moment, Izelle’s bravado split. Her fists clenched at her sides, lips hanging open as if caught between fight and apology.

“I only want what I can’t have,” she admitted, voice whisper-bare.

Their tension snapped in the next heartbeat. Ryven seized her wrist, and for a second, both stood motionless—drenched in rain and longing. Then they tumbled through the storm, breathless, to the mouth of a hidden cave behind the tents. The world shrank to darkness and damp stone and the press of her back to the wall.

Izelle’s hands flattened against Ryven’s chest, feeling the shudder of nerves beneath his cool exterior. He kissed her like he was drowning—furious and tender, confessing too much in every desperate gasp. Her nails slid into his wet hair, tugging, anchoring, as if only touch could heal the pain between them.

He pressed her hard against the stone, hips aligned, hands trembling as they traced her jaw, her waist, every place she let him find. She kissed back with a hunger that was almost grief, gasping his name between kisses, soft and hoarse. Time stretched, everything outside eclipsed by the wild, tangled heat of their bodies, the honesty in their trembling hands.

In the aftermath, Ryven’s head bowed into her shoulder, his breath shuddering, as if relief and shame warred inside him. Izelle brushed the hair from his forehead, her own eyes shimmering with something fierce and frightened. “Don’t vanish now,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer—just kissed her again, softer now, as though memorizing her.

Outside the cave, hidden in shadow, someone watched. Cold eyes glinted where torchlight failed. The storm had a witness, and secrets would no longer stay buried.

To be continued...