The pilot’s words, "I’m simply making sure what’s mine stays alive," echoed in Amara’s mind long after the fire had dwindled to embers and Melita had fallen asleep. They were a brand, seared onto her consciousness. What’s mine. It wasn’t a question, not a suggestion. It was a statement of intent, a primal declaration of ownership that vibrated with an unsettling power.
She lay under the tarp, pressed against his back, his arm once again draped over her. Sleep, despite her exhaustion, refused to come. Every nerve ending was alive, hyper-aware of his presence, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her own body felt like a traitor, responding to his proximity with an alarming hum, a deep, unfamiliar ache in her core.
She, Amara Walters, who built walls around her emotions thicker
