The fifth day in the jungle dawned, bringing with it a renewed sense of despair for Amara. The relentless humidity had turned her clothes into a second skin, perpetually damp and chafing. Her hair was a tangled mess, her skin felt grimy despite attempts to wash in the stream, and the dull ache in her head had settled into a persistent throb. The lack of rescue, the unending sameness of their days, and the suffocating intimacy with the pilot were fraying her nerves.
She woke to the familiar sensation of his arm around her, his body a warm, solid presence against her back. This time, there was no flush, no thrill. Only a deep, weary resignation. He was simply there, an inescapable part of her new, brutal reality.
He was already stirring, his low murmur to Melita filling the small space. “M
