HIS POV
If the food had humbled us, the dance nearly broke us.
Their hips rolled, snapped, swayed in time with the drums. Waists twisting, feet stomping, fabric swirling. It wasn’t just dance—it was seduction, celebration, defiance all in one. The squad went silent for the first time all day, jaws slack, eyes wide.
And Amara danced too.
Not in front, not trying to lead. But when her hips moved, slow and precise, my chest tightened. I forgot the other women, forgot the men around me, forgot the war we were here to fight. All I saw was her, moving like the rhythm belonged to her body.
At one point, her gaze found mine mid-dance, and she tilted her head just enough—daring me to look away. I didn’t. Couldn’t.
By the time the music ended, sweat clung to my palms, my throat dry. My chest a
