Elena's POV:
Two months later, I ran into Damian at a temporary trauma center in northern Libanin.
It had rained that day. The yard was nothing but mud.
I stepped down from the mobile surgical unit, peeled off my bloody gloves, and looked up. He was standing by the supply depot.
No black suit. No bodyguards. No gleaming armor-plated car.
He wore a plain dark jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, unloading boxes of antibiotics alongside the volunteers.
I stood still for a few seconds.
He must have felt my gaze. He turned.
Across the muddy yard, maybe fifteen meters apart, we looked at each other.
Damian went completely still.
Then he set down the box and walked toward me, one step at a time.
Two months apart. He'd lost weight.
"Elena."
His voice was raw.
I glanced past him. "
