The heat clung to Siahra as she stepped from the battered Jeep, sweat beading at her temples, bright eyes full of nervous hope. Her hair—long and dark, escaping its loose braid—caught the sunlight in wild, untamed waves. The lodge loomed ahead, all green shadows and whispered promise, and with each step, she felt her old life slip further from her skin.

A low, steady voice called her name. Roen stood framed in the lobby’s open archway—broad-shouldered, dark suit rolled at the sleeves, stubble shadowing a strong jaw. His gaze, silver-edged and unflinching, made her heart stutter. He moved toward her with a commanding ease, his presence electrifying the air. For a fleeting second, she wanted nothing so badly as to please him.

“Welcome to Wildheart Lodge,” he said, his tone velvet and steel. Siahra tried for a handshake—awkward, earnest. He didn’t take it. Instead, his hand settled low at her back, the heat of his palm burning through her cotton blouse as he directed her inside. Their bodies brushed—her breath caught, eyes darting to his. He smirked, lips quirking, delighting in her disarray.

Inside, the bustle of staff shifted around them—quick glances, whispered curiosity. Siahra’s cheeks flamed. She adjusted her canvas skirt with nervous fingers, straightening under Roen’s watchful gaze. He introduced her as “our new intern,” voice smooth but threaded with challenge, as if daring her to rise or break.

He led her through shadowed hallways, pausing in a storeroom overflowing with linen. A step too close, his hand hovered above her hip as he listed tasks—voice low, words curling around her like vines. She bathed in the attention and the risk, her pulse thick in her throat. For a wild moment, their eyes locked, Roen’s expression unreadable, as though he was weighing every secret she hadn’t told.

Suddenly, a laugh broke the spell. Zatira tumbled in, cheeks pink, arms full of lush green cuttings. Her lab coat was blotched with dirt, ponytail askew. “Hi! Sorry, I—I’m Zatira,” she blurted, tripping on a loose floorboard and grinning up at Siahra, warmth radiating. Relief flooded Siahra at her openness. In Zatira’s gaze, she saw immediate, genuine welcome—a softness she hadn’t expected.

They slipped out together to the kitchen, Zatira chattering about herbal cures and jungle discoveries. Siahra relaxed, hands unclenching as laughter spun between them. Zatira’s clumsiness was endearing, but there was an urgent edge to how she spoke, as if doing good might erase some hidden darkness. For the first time since arriving, Siahra felt less alone.

The evening bled into sultry dusk. Siahra found herself drawn toward the lodge’s edge, where silence hummed. She saw Roen on the balcony above, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, watching the sky—and, she realized, her. His eyes followed her; her chest tightened with conflicting desire and uncertainty.

Later, in the privacy of her simple cabin, Siahra shivered, remembering the brush of Roen’s hand, the hunger in his glance, the way Zatira’s friendship felt like a lifeline. Unpacking her bag, her fingers grazed a worn photo—one she meant to throw away, but couldn’t.

On the small desk, she found a folded slip of paper. Shaky hands opened it. One line, written in rapid, almost panicked script: “Don’t trust him. Don’t trust yourself.”

Her breath caught, pulse stuttering into panic and hope, fear curling tight inside her chest.

To be continued...