Chapter 36.
Kane Flint was a man built of iron and silence, a man who had spent a decade treating his body like a machine designed for one purpose: to endure. But as he looked down at Harper, he felt the internal gears of his composure grinding to a halt. He reached into the pocket of his discarded black jeans, his fingers trembling as they pulled out a small, crinkling foil packet. It was a habit of survival, a reflex of a man who never left a trace and never risked a tether. "Harper, wait," he groaned, his voice a low, gravelly warning. He went to tear it, but Harper’s hand shot out, her fingers pale and thin but possessing a sudden, startling strength. She intercepted the packet, plucking it from his calloused hand. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it toward the far wall. It landed with a
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