The way he looked at me wasn't a glance; it was a reconnaissance mission, and I was wide open for the taking.
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### Elena
**Day 1: The Intake**
The Bastion isn’t a spa for people who want to be pampered. It’s a spa for people who need to be broken and rebuilt. It sits on the edge of the Big Bend, a brutalist concrete fortress carved into the side of a limestone cliff, looking out over a canyon that could swallow a city and still have room for dessert. My board of directors sent me here with a polite ultimatum: go to the desert for a month, stop screaming at the CFO, or lose the CEO title.
I stepped out of the black SUV and the heat hit me like a physical slap. It was one hundred and four degrees. The air was so dry it felt like it was trying to suck the marrow right out of my bones.
And then there was Wyatt.
He was standing by the heavy steel doors, lean and hard-packed like a coil of steel cable. He didn't look like a 'wellness coordinator.' He looked like he’d been forged in a furnace and quenched in motor oil. He was wearing faded Wranglers, a tan work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show forearms like corded wood, and a pair of boots that had seen more miles than my last three Audis combined.
“Ms. Sterling,” he said. His voice was a low-frequency rumble, the kind of sound you feel in your solar plexus before you hear it with your ears. He didn't offer to take my bag. He just looked at me. His eyes were the color of wet flint.
“Mr…?” I let the question hang, tilting my head. I’ve spent my life making men blink first.
“Wyatt,” he said. “I’m your lead adventure specialist. For the next four weeks, I’m the person who decides if you’re fit to go back to the world. If you follow my lead, you’ll leave here better than you arrived. If you don't, you'll just leave here broke.”
He didn't smile. He didn't bow. He just turned and started walking. I found myself staring at the way his jeans moved over his glutes—tight, functional, and completely unimpressed by my five-figure wardrobe. I followed him, my heels clicking like a nervous heartbeat against the stone.
### Wyatt
**Day 1: The Gear Check**
I’ve seen a thousand Elenas. High-strung, high-maintenance, and usually about as useful in the brush as a screen door on a submarine. She was different, though. She had this look in her eyes—not just anger, but a kind of hunger that looked like it could burn down a forest if she let it. She was wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than my first truck and heels that were a lawsuit waiting to happen.
I led her into the staging room. It was cool inside, the thick concrete keeping the Texas sun at bay. I pointed to the table where her kit was laid out: heavy-duty hiking boots, canvas trousers, a tactical belt, and a water bladder.
“Strip,” I said.
She froze. Her eyebrows shot up, and for a second, I saw the CEO come out. “Excuse me?”
“The silk goes in the locker, Ms. Sterling. The jewelry, the perfume, the ego—it all stays in the vault. If we’re going out into the Chisos tomorrow, you need to be gear-compliant. I don’t hike with people who are more worried about their silhouette than their hydration.”
She looked at me for a long beat. She was trying to find a crack in the armor. I just stood there, hands at my sides, steady as a marksman’s breath.
“Fine,” she whispered.
She started unbuttoning that blouse. She didn't go behind the screen. She did it right there, looking me dead in the eye. It was a power move, or she thought it was. But as the silk slid off her shoulders, revealing a lace bra that was more architecture than clothing, the air in the room got thick. Her skin was pale, unmarked by the sun, looking like cream poured over marble.
I didn't look away. I watched the way her chest rose and fell. She was breathing fast. I could see the pulse in her neck jumping like a trapped bird. She stepped out of her skirt, and her legs were long, toned, and capped by a pair of black lace panties that made my jaw tighten.
“Something wrong, Wyatt?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave. She knew she was winning the moment.
“Put the boots on,” I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “We’ve got work to do.”
### Elena
**Day 4: The Rappel**
My thighs were screaming. Every muscle I’d ignored for the last decade was currently filing a formal grievance. We were standing on a ledge three hundred feet above the canyon floor. The wind was whipping my hair around my face, smelling of sage and hot stone.
Wyatt was behind me, rigging the ropes. He’d been a ghost for the last three days—present but untouchable, a silent shadow that corrected my form and pushed me until I puked, then handed me a canteen without a word of sympathy.
“Step back,” he ordered.
I moved to the edge. The drop was a sheer vertical nightmare. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a piston.
“I’m not sure about this,” I said, and for the first time, the bravado was gone.
He stepped into my space. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He reached around me to grab the harness straps, his thick fingers grazing the insides of my thighs as he tightened the buckles. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was firm, clinical, and absolutely devastating.
“Look at me,” he said.
I turned my head. He was inches away. I could see the fine lines around his eyes and the way his stubble was a mix of black and silver.
“The rope doesn't lie, Elena. It either holds or it doesn't. You’ve spent your life manipulating people, but you can't manipulate gravity. Trust the gear. Trust me.”
He placed his hand on the small of my back and pushed me toward the abyss. For a second, I was falling, and then the harness caught. I was suspended in the air, my legs braced against the rock. Wyatt leaned over the edge, his face framed against the blue Texas sky.
“Down you go,” he murmured.
I descended, my hands gripping the rope so hard the leather gloves smoked. But as I reached the bottom and looked up, he was already coming down after me. He didn't use the rope like a normal person. He moved like a predator, bounding off the rock, fast and aggressive. When he landed next to me, he didn't unhook himself. He stayed in my personal space, the adrenaline of the drop making the air between us crackle.
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the metal carabiner at his chest. “You like being in control, don't you?”
“I like staying alive,” he said. He didn't move my hand. He let my fingers rest against the heavy metal, right over his heart. It was beating fast. Faster than it should have been for a man who did this every day.
### Wyatt
**Day 10: The Sharpening Stone**
I was sitting on the porch of the staff quarters, the sun dipping below the horizon and turning the sky into a bruised purple mess. I had my Kershaw folder out and a whetstone in my lap. The steady *shing-shing* of the blade against the stone was the only thing keeping my head straight.
Elena had been at the resort for ten days. In that time, she’d transformed. The silk was gone, replaced by grit and a tan that made her look like she belonged to the earth. She didn't walk; she marched. And she watched me. Every time I turned around, those dark eyes were on me, calculating, weighing, wanting.
I heard the screen door of her villa creak open fifty yards away. She didn't head for the dining hall. She headed for me.
She was wearing a thin white tank top and a pair of running shorts that showed off the new definition in her quads. She didn't have a bra on; the desert air was cooling down, and I could see the sharp points of her nipples pressing against the fabric.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked, not looking up from the knife.
“The silence is too loud,” she said, stepping onto the porch. She sat down on the steps at my feet. The scent of her—lavender soap and sweat—hit me like a broadside.
“That’s the desert,” I said. “It strips away the noise until all you have left is the truth.”
“And what’s your truth, Wyatt?” She leaned back on her elbows, her chest arching. “You’ve been retired from the service for what? Five years? You move like a man who’s still looking for a fight.”
I stopped sharpening. The blade was wicked sharp now, the edge gleaming in the moonlight. “I don't look for fights anymore. I just finish them.”
She reached up and ran a finger along the side of my boot. “You’re very good at giving orders. But I wonder what happens when someone doesn't follow them.”
I looked down at her. She was playing a dangerous game. She was a client. I was staff. If I touched her, I was finished. If I didn't, I was going to lose my goddamn mind.
“Go back to your room, Elena.”
“Make me,” she whispered.
I set the stone aside. I closed the knife with a metallic *snick* that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet. I reached down, grabbed her by the upper arms, and hauled her to her feet. She was light, but she felt solid, grounded.
“You think this is a game?” I growled, my face inches from hers. I could smell the heat coming off her skin. “You think I’m some resort mascot you can flirt with to feel better about your mid-life crisis?”
“I’m thirty-eight, Wyatt. And I’m not flirting. I’m telling you that if you don't put your hands on me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to scream.”
I didn't give her ten seconds. I slammed her back against the cedar post of the porch. My mouth found hers, and it wasn't a kiss—it was a collision. She tasted like salt and fire. Her hands went into my hair, pulling me closer, her body molding itself against mine. She was all sharp angles and desperate heat.
I moved one hand down, my palm flat against her belly, and felt the muscles there quiver. I slid my hand under the hem of that white tank top. Her skin was electric. I cupped her breast, my thumb finding the hard peak of her nipple, and she let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sob.
“Wyatt,” she breathed against my lips. “Please.”
### Elena
**Day 10: The Porch**
Finally.
His hands were like sandpaper and silk all at once. They were huge, covering me, claiming me. He wasn't the polite guide anymore. He was the man I’d seen underneath the surface—the one who knew exactly how much pressure it took to make someone break.
He lifted me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against my inner thighs, a friction that made my head swim. He backed me into the shadows of the porch, away from the moonlight.
He pulled the tank top over my head and tossed it aside. My breasts were bared to the cool night air for a fraction of a second before his mouth was on them. He took one nipple between his teeth and gave a sharp, authoritative tug.
I gasped, my back arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “God, Wyatt… yes.”
He was breathing like he’d just run five miles uphill. He moved his mouth to my ear, his stubble grazing my jawline. “If we do this, Elena, there’s no going back. There’s no CEO and no specialist. There’s just this. Do you understand?”
“I didn't come here to go back,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
He let me slide down his body until my feet hit the boards, but he didn't let go. He reached for the button of my shorts. His fingers were steady, but his eyes were dark with a hunger that terrified me and thrilled me in equal measure.
He stripped the shorts and my panties down in one fluid motion. I stood there, completely naked on a porch in the middle of the Texas desert, while the man who was supposed to be my guardian looked at me like I was his last meal.
He knelt down in front of me. He didn't say a word. He just spread my knees.
I reached out to steady myself, my hands landing on his shoulders. He looked up at me, his face set in a mask of intense concentration. Then, he leaned forward.
When his tongue hit my clit, I thought I was going to die. It wasn't a tentative lick. It was a firm, rhythmic stroke that knew exactly where to go. He used his thumbs to pull my labia wide, exposing everything to him. The contrast between the cool desert breeze and the wet, scorching heat of his mouth was too much.
“Wyatt!” I cried out, my head hitting the cedar post.
He didn't stop. He increased the pressure, his tongue swirling, flickering, demanding that I fall apart. I could feel the tension building in my hips, a tight coil that was winding tighter and tighter. I was slick, dripping onto his chin, and he seemed to drink me in, his growls vibrating against my sensitive skin.
I was right on the edge, the first wave of a climax starting to roll through my thighs, when he suddenly pulled back.
I looked down, dazed, my breath coming in ragged hitches. He was standing up, his face tight. He was unbuckling his belt, the leather creaking in the silence.
“Not yet,” he rasped. “I want you to see me.”
He pushed his jeans down. His cock was thick, heavy, and angled upward like a weapon. It was a dark, angry red, the skin stretched tight. He looked like he was made of stone and fire.
He stepped toward me, his hand reaching out to cup the back of my neck. He pulled me into him, his hardness pressing against my wet heat.
“Tell me you want it,” he commanded.
“I want you. Now. Please, Wyatt, now.”
He picked me up again, but this time he didn't stop at the porch. He carried me toward the door of my villa, his stride purposeful. But just as his hand hit the latch, the floodlights of the main perimeter fence snapped on, bathing the entire courtyard in a harsh, artificial white light.
A voice crackled over the resort intercom system—the night security sweep.
“All units, sector four clear. Proceeding to guest villas.”
Wyatt froze. His chest was heaving against mine. We were ten feet from the door, I was naked, and the security detail was less than a minute away.
He looked at the door, then back at the dark expanse of the canyon. The choice was clear: get caught and lose everything, or run into the dark.
He didn't look at me for permission. He just turned and headed for the shadows of the ravine, carrying me with him as the sound of the security jeep’s engine grew closer.
### Wyatt
**Night 10: The Arroyo**
The desert doesn’t offer cover; it offers concealment, and there’s a hell of a difference. I had her hoisted against my chest, her skin like a hot wire against my shirt, as I ducked behind a stand of prickly pear and dropped into the dry wash. The security jeep’s headlights cut a pair of white tunnels through the dust above us, the engine’s drone vibrating in the soles of my boots.
Elena didn’t make a sound. She was a different creature than the woman who’d stepped off that SUV ten days ago. She clung to me, her breath hot against my collarbone, her legs locked around my waist with a strength that would’ve surprised her trainer back in the city.
I moved fast, my eyes adjusted to the starlight, finding the path through the loose scree by instinct. We were three hundred yards out before I felt the tension in the air slacken. I set her down in the shadow of a limestone overhang, the rock still radiating the day’s heat like a dying furnace.
She was standing there, shivering—not from the cold, because it was still eighty-five degrees, but from the raw voltage of the moment. She was completely bare, her skin glowing like a pearl in the dark, her nipples dark and tight against the pale curve of her breasts.
“You’re insane,” she whispered, a jagged little laugh catching in her throat.
“I’m thorough,” I said. I reached back, unhooked the bedroll I’d snatched from the porch, and kicked it out over the sand. “Sit.”
It wasn't a request. She sat, her knees splayed, her eyes never leaving mine. I didn’t waste time with the jeans. I stripped them off, my boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud, and then I was over her. I didn’t go for the mouth first. I went for the throat, my teeth grazing the tendon that ran from her ear to her collarbone.
She let out a sharp, bird-like cry that echoed off the rock. I felt her hands—those manicured hands that were starting to callus—dig into my hair, pulling me down.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to break you?” I growled, my hand sliding down to the junction of her thighs. She was slicker than a grease-trap, her heat coating my fingers as I pushed two into her. She was tight, her muscles clamping down on me like a vice.
“Then break me, Wyatt,” she hissed, her hips bucking up to meet the pressure. “Stop talking and finish the job.”
I didn’t need a second order. I gripped her hips, my thumbs digging into the hollows of her pelvis, and I drove into her. It wasn't a clean entry. It was friction and force, the kind of impact that leaves a bruise. She gasped, her head snapping back against the bedroll, her eyes rolling into her head as I filled her.
She was a high-performance machine, all lean muscle and desperate, focused energy. I moved with the rhythm of a man who’d spent half his life marching through hell—steady, relentless, and heavy. Every time I thrust, the sound of skin hitting skin was like a wet slap in the silence of the canyon.
I watched her face in the moonlight. She wasn't the CEO now. She was just a woman being hit with everything I had, her mouth open in a silent scream, her fingers scratching tracks down my back. I felt the first tremor of her climax—a deep, internal shudder that started in her core and radiated outward.
“Look at me,” I commanded, my voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
She opened her eyes, dark and blown wide.
“You aren't going back the same,” I said, and then I let go. I felt the white-hot surge of it, the release hitting me with the force of a breaching charge. I buried my face in the crook of her neck and let the desert swallow us whole.
### Elena
**Day 14: The High Observation Post**
Four days after the arroyo, the world looks different. The board of directors feels like a memory from a previous life, a group of suit-wearing children playing with paper money.
We were at the highest point of the Bastion’s range, a jagged spire of rock that looked out over the Rio Grande. Wyatt was behind me, his heavy binoculars focused on the horizon. He was being the professional again—the specialist. But the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching had changed. It wasn't the look of a man watching a client. It was the look of a man checking his weapon before a raid.
I was wearing the tactical trousers and the boots, my hair tied back in a braid that felt like a whip against my neck. I felt lean. I felt dangerous.
“Four degrees west,” he muttered, his voice a low vibration against my back. “See that dust? That’s a herd of javelina. They don't give a damn about your quarterly earnings, Elena.”
I turned around in the circle of his arms. The binoculars were a cold weight between us. “Is that what we’re doing today, Wyatt? Animal husbandry?”
He lowered the glass. His eyes were hard, the flinty grey I’d grown to crave. “We’re learning patience. You’ve spent your life demanding things happen on your schedule. The desert doesn't have a schedule.”
I reached out and ran my thumb over his lower lip. It was dry, slightly chapped. “I think I’ve learned enough about patience. I want to learn about something else.”
I didn't wait for him to move. I reached down and unzipped my trousers, letting them fall to my ankles. I wasn't wearing anything underneath. The wind up here was fierce, biting at my skin, but the look in his eyes provided all the heat I needed.
I stepped out of the pants and turned around, gripping the waist-high stone railing of the observation deck. I arched my back, presenting myself to him against the backdrop of three hundred miles of empty Texas sky.
“Elena,” he warned, but his voice was thick.
“The security sweep isn't for another three hours, Wyatt. And there isn't a soul for fifty miles. Be the specialist. Show me how you handle an equipment failure.”
I heard the heavy clink of his belt buckle. The sound was more arousing than any music I’d ever heard. Then I felt him—the solid, unyielding weight of him pressing against my backside. He didn't use his hands at first. He just leaned in, his chest broad and hot against my spine, his breath ghosting over my shoulder.
Then he reached around, his large, rough hands cupping my breasts, his calluses catching on my nipples. He teased them until they were screaming, then he moved one hand down, his fingers finding my wetness with the precision of a master locksmith.
“You’re a brat,” he whispered, his teeth nipping at my earlobe.
“Make me behave,” I challenged.
He gripped my hair, tilting my head back until I was looking up at the blue-white sky, and then he shoved into me from behind. The angle was perfect. He hit a spot deep inside me that made my knees buckle, and the only thing keeping me upright was his grip on the railing and his body pinning me to the stone.
He was fast this time, his thrusts short and punishing. I watched the horizon blur as the pleasure started to build, a heavy, throbbing weight in my pelvis. Every time he hit me, I felt the vibration in the stone beneath my hands. I was vocal—shouting into the wind, my voice lost in the vastness of the canyon.
When I came, it felt like the rock itself was breaking apart. I squeezed him, my internal muscles pulsing in a frantic rhythm, and he growled, a deep, guttural sound of victory, before he spent himself inside me.
We stayed like that for a long time, the wind howling around us, two ghosts on top of a mountain who had forgotten how to be anything but primal.
### Wyatt
**Day 22: The River Wash**
The heat was an actual weight now, pushing down on the Chisos like a heavy hand. We’d hiked ten miles down to a hidden spring where the water pooled in a natural limestone basin before disappearing back into the sand.
Elena was in the water, her skin glistening, her hair a wet tangle down her back. She looked less like a CEO and more like a force of nature. She’d lost the softness she’d arrived with. Her shoulders were defined, her waist narrow and hard.
I stayed on the bank, my boots off, my feet in the cool mud. I was cleaning my 1911, the familiar weight of the steel a grounding presence. But my eyes kept drifting to her.
“Come in, Wyatt,” she called, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. “The water’s fine.”
“I’m on watch,” I said, though there was nothing to watch but the buzzards circling a mile up.
She laughed, a sound that was starting to get under my skin in ways I couldn't ignore. She waded out of the pool, the water sluicing off her body, her breasts heavy and swaying. She didn't reach for a towel. She walked straight to me, dripping on my gear, and knelt between my legs.
“You’re always on watch,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine. “Don't you ever just want to be?”
She reached out and took the slide of the pistol from my hand, setting it aside on a flat rock. Then she started unbuttoning my shirt. Her fingers were steady now, no longer the trembling things they’d been on Day 1.
She pushed the shirt off my shoulders and leaned in, her wet skin cooling my chest. She started to lick me—slow, deliberate strokes from my sternum up to my throat. She tasted like mineral water and salt.
I reached down and grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look at me. “You’re trying to turn the tables, Elena. You think because you’ve survived the hills, you’re the one in charge?”
She didn't flinch. She leaned into my hand. “I think we both know who’s in charge of what, Wyatt. But right now? I want you on your back.”
I stared at her for a long beat. Then I lay back on the sun-warmed flat rock.
She straddled me, her knees digging into the sand on either side of my hips. She looked down at me, the sun behind her head giving her a halo of white fire. She reached down, unzipping my fly with a slow, agonizing deliberation. When she freed me, her eyes darkened.
She didn't use her hands. She just lowered herself onto me, her wet heat a shocking contrast to the dry air. She let out a long, low hiss of breath as she took me in, inch by inch, until she was seated firmly against my pelvis.
She started to move, a slow, grinding circle that made my vision go grainy. She was in total control of the pace, her eyes locked on mine, a wickedly playful smile touching her lips as she watched me struggle to keep my breathing steady.
“How’s the view from down there, Specialist?” she whispered.
“Acceptable,” I managed to choke out.
She picked up the speed, her hips pumping with a fierce, athletic grace. I reached up and gripped her waist, my fingers nearly meeting around her, and I helped her find the rhythm. It was raw, sun-drenched, and completely unashamed. We were two animals in the dirt, the only two people left in a world made of stone and light.
When she finally broke, she collapsed onto my chest, her sweat mixing with the spring water on her skin, her heartbeat thudding against mine like a drum. I held her there, the desert quiet returning slowly, feeling the weight of the woman I’d helped rebuild.
### Elena
**Day 28: The Vault**
The black SUV was idling in the driveway of the Bastion. My bags were packed—two small duffels of gear. I’d told the driver to burn my silk dresses and the five-figure heels. I didn't want them. I didn't recognize the woman who’d worn them.
I went back into the staging room—the vault where it had all started.
Wyatt was there. He was standing by the lockers, his hands in his pockets, looking like he’d been carved out of the very limestone we’d spent the last month climbing.
“Ms. Sterling,” he said. The formality was back, but his voice was a low rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Wyatt.”
I walked up to him. I was wearing my hiking boots and the canvas trousers. I felt solid. I felt like I could take on the world and win, but not the way I used to. I didn't need to scream anymore. I just needed to be.
“The driver’s waiting,” he said.
“Let him wait.”
I walked over to the heavy steel door and turned the deadbolt. *Clack.*
Wyatt’s eyebrows went up, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “That’s not in the itinerary.”
“The itinerary is whatever I say it is,” I said, stepping into his space. I reached out and grabbed the front of his work shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists. “One last gear check, Specialist. I need to make sure I’m fit for the world.”
He didn't say a word. He just reached out, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. He didn't strip me this time. He just unbuckled my belt and pushed my trousers down to my knees.
He lifted me onto the heavy equipment table, the metal cold against my skin. He stepped between my legs, his presence a physical force that filled the room.
“You’re going back to a world of boardrooms and bullshit, Elena,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Don't let them soften you. Stay sharp.”
“I’m not going back soft,” I promised, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in until there wasn't a millimeter of air between us.
He entered me with a single, deep thrust that made me cry out, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. This wasn't the desperate heat of the arroyo or the playfulness of the river. This was an anchor. It was a promise.
He moved with a steady, punishing force, his eyes never leaving mine. He was marking me one last time, making sure that when I sat in those leather chairs in the city, I’d still feel him. I’d still feel the grit of the desert and the weight of a man who didn't give a damn about my title.
I met him move for move, my body responding with a precision that was the result of a month of his training. I was calibrated. I was ready.
When we peaked, it was silent. No screams, just the sound of our breathing and the heavy, synchronized thud of our hearts. He held me long after he was finished, his face buried in my hair, his hands steady on my hips.
He pulled back and looked at me. For the first time in a month, I saw a crack in the flint. A flicker of something that looked like respect. Or maybe something more.
“Go on,” he said, his voice a rough rasp. “Get out of here before I decide to keep you.”
I hopped off the table, adjusted my clothes, and headed for the door. I didn't look back until my hand was on the handle.
“Wyatt?”
He was standing in the shadows of the vault, the light from the hallway catching the silver in his stubble.
“See you next quarter,” I said.
I walked out into the Texas sun, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't just surviving. I was hunting.
### Wyatt
**Day 30: The Aftermath**
I stood on the edge of the canyon, watching the dust trail from the SUV disappear into the shimmering heat of the horizon. The silence of the desert had returned, but it felt different now. It didn't feel empty; it felt like a held breath.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Kershaw. I opened it with a flick of my thumb, the blade gleaming in the noon sun. It was still sharp—sharp enough to shave with, sharp enough to cut through anything the world could throw at it.
I thought about the look in her eyes as she’d walked out. She wasn't a client anymore. She was a weapon.
I closed the knife and looked down at the limestone beneath my boots. She’d be back. Women like Elena don't just walk away from the fire. They come back to see if they can make it burn hotter.
I turned and started the long hike back to the Bastion. I had work to do. New arrivals were coming in tomorrow—more soft people with hard egos.
But as I walked, I felt the phantom weight of her legs around my waist, and I knew the next three months were going to be the longest of my life.
I’m Wyatt. I don't look for fights. But I sure as hell know how to finish them. And this? This was just the opening move.
