Celine arrived at Wildheart Lodge just before sunrise, her honey-brown hair twisted into a loose bun and gentle eyes scanning the groggy staff gathered for morning briefing. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, but her posture was quietly commanding, a comforting anchor in the chaos. She wore soft linen trousers, sleeves rolled up, and exuded warmth—a soothing balm for nerves raw from secrets and overwork. Roen nodded at her, jaw clenched, and she responded with a tiny, understanding squeeze of his shoulder, as though she already sensed the storm raging beneath his perfect control.

Siahra, clutching her notebook with trembling fingers, kept darting glances at Roen from beneath her dark lashes. She wore a borrowed sundress—slightly too big in the bodice, the thin strap slipping from her shoulder no matter how often she fixed it. Roen’s gaze caught on the bare skin exposed there, the slip of collarbone, before he forced his eyes back to the schedule. The tension was a silent current between them. Every time their arms brushed, every accidental touch, her breath came faster—both desperate to act on the electricity, both terrified someone would see.

Zatira barreled in late, a wild smear of jungle mud on her cheek, her palms full of crushed leaves. She nearly tripped over Celine’s chair, blushing fiercely and flashing an apologetic grin. Her wide blue eyes darted from Siahra to Roen—catching, just for a second, the kind of yearning she tried to mask with too-bright laughter and a rush into practical matters. She touched Siahra’s wrist, gentle, grounding, and Siahra leaned into it a moment longer than necessary, grateful for the safety of her touch. Zatira’s own pulse hammered, old guilt mixing with fresh jealousy.

Later, as rain battered the tin roof, Roen paced his office, tension knotted in his broad shoulders. He wore a crisp, open-collared shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing the old scar slicing across his forearm—a detail Siahra couldn’t stop staring at when she edged into the room after everyone else had gone. He didn’t look up, but she felt the air go thick with want. Her voice trembled. “Do you ever…regret being so alone?” He paused, a muscle ticking in his jaw, then crossed the space between them in three strides, his hand cupping her chin, thumb brushing her lip. “Don’t mistake control for loneliness,” he murmured, but his eyes betrayed him—hungry, almost desperate.

Her next breath was stolen. She arched into his touch, lips parting. The brush of his mouth against hers was slow, savoring—then, suddenly, his hunger broke free. He pressed her up against the locked door, fingers exploring the curve of her waist through thin cotton, mouth teasing her lower lip until she whimpered. Every rational thought blurred, replaced with need. “Roen—” she gasped, and he cut her off with a kiss that left them both shaking.

“I want you. Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice rough against her throat as he nipped a line from her ear to her collarbone. She shook her head, surrendering as his hands dragged the dress down, exposing soft skin to the chill air. He trailed his lips down her neck, savoring every shiver, tasting her. Her hands tangled in his shirt, tugging, clutching—needing to drown out the panic, the memories she’d run from. He pinned her wrists above her head with one large hand, the other sliding down, slow and sure, leaving her trembling and breathless. Her innocence melted away beneath the pressure of his touch, the promise of pleasure and pain. The world outside vanished—only his body anchored her, only his whisper claimed her. She gave him everything, and he took it, worshipped it, his mouth finding every secret, every gasp as thunder rolled outside. When he finally collapsed beside her on the scatter of papers and maps, her heart galloped, wild and free and terrified.

After, tangled in silence on the floor, she caught him watching her, something fierce and broken flickering in his dark eyes. “What are you running from, Siahra?” he asked, voice bare. She almost told him—almost. But she just pressed her lips to his shoulder, desperate for comfort, for something real to hold onto in the storm.

A little later, shaky and changed, Siahra slipped from his office, eyes shining and haunted. Curiosity propelled her to Roen’s desk while she waited for her heart to slow. She found a battered drawer locked tight. On impulse, she worked the combination she’d glimpsed in his planner. The drawer opened with a soft click. Inside, wrapped in a torn cloth, was a keepsake spattered with dried blood—a silver locket, dull and ancient, crusted shut. Siahra stared in horror, fear thickening in her throat.

Roen’s voice called her name from the hallway—closer, closer. She slammed the drawer shut, pulse jackhammering in her ears.

To be continued...