Lightning sheared the jungle sky, casting wild shadows just beyond the rain-lashed veranda. Roen stalked across the open lounge, his dark hair wet, blue shirt clinging to muscled arms. Tension radiated from him—a palpable force. His jaw was set, lips drawn tight, eyes sharpened by a storm of secrets. He paused, glancing warily toward the guest cabins. Something about the stranger who checked in at dusk rattled him, made each movement more guarded.

Siahra watched from the edge of the bar, fingers white around her glass. Her dress—a simple slip, rain-spattered and clinging—did nothing to shield her from his attention. Roen’s gaze landed on her, burning, but tonight his restraint looked brittle. She forced a smile, but it trembled, betraying nerves he could spot like blood in water.

He crossed to her, looming close, all restrained power and heat. “Stay inside,” he murmured, voice just low enough, lips dangerously near her ear. She shivered—part fear, part longing—and had to fight not to reach out, not to ask what haunted him tonight. Roen’s hand lingered at her waist, thumb tracing slow circles, just long enough to promise: I want you, but not now.

Behind them, Zatira hovered, arms full of forgotten towels, her lab coat crooked, hair escaping in wild curls damp from the storm. She tried for a cheerful greeting, but her smile sat wrong—eyes swollen, darting from Siahra to Roen. She fumbled with her keys, cheeks flushing hot. She’d seen something in Roen’s office, something embarrassing—lace, delicate and not hers. Her knuckles whitened on the doorknob.

Alone in the corridor, Zatira pressed her forehead to the cold wall, breath hitching. She hated this—wanting what wasn’t hers, feeling invisible and foolish and desperate all at once. The storm outside sounded like her pulse, wild and relentless.

In a flash of lightning, Roen appeared at the far end of the hallway, his silhouette broad, intent. Zatira straightened, resolve quivering. “You should talk to her,” she blurted, but her voice cracked—too honest, too raw. He looked at her—not with the intimacy she starved for, but with kindness that stung. “You okay?” he asked softly. Zatira’s lower lip trembled. She lied: “Just tired.”

A sudden clap of thunder shook them. Panic flared in Zatira’s chest, but Roen’s hand caught hers—rough, warm, grounding. “Let it out,” he urged, and she collapsed against him, shuddering, letting months of longing break loose. Their bodies tangled, desperate—his lips fierce, her hands clutching, pulling him down with her onto tangled sheets and breathless confessions. “Roen—” she gasped, hunger and heartbreak cresting as thunder drowned their secrets. Their storm was frantic, aching—his teeth scraping her neck, her nails raking his back, bodies seeking oblivion in each other’s arms.

When it was over, guilt settled heavy between them, sweat cooling on their skin. Roen turned away first, jaw flexing. “We forget this happened,” he said into the darkness, voice rough, already building walls. Zatira nodded, tears sliding silent, chest hollow.

Elsewhere in the lodge, Siahra sat in the soft glow of her cabin, tracing the faded ink of the warning note she’d once found. Her phone buzzed. Heart in her throat, she read the message left by the mysterious guest:
I know what you did. I’m not leaving till I get what I want.

Lightning flared, illuminating Roen’s haunted eyes as he found the note on his own pillow—his name scrawled in red ink, the past clawing back to life.

To be continued...