Zach arranges another small plane from a contact deeper in the territory. We drive for hours, leaving Ramirez's main group behind. Eventually, we arrive at a crumbling roadside motel. The plan is to meet the pilot here.
The motel clerk gives us a single key to a dingy room with peeling wallpaper. Marta and Zach take another. The tension between the four of us is taut; we've survived bullets and scorpions, but trust is still wafer-thin.
Inside the room, Elena collapses on the creaky bed, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. I lock the door, a wave of protectiveness surging. She shifts, beckoning me over. Her voice is husky, a plea in her gaze. "Just hold me."
I slip beside her, wrapping arms around her waist. The day's grime still clings to us, but the closeness is a balm. Gently, I peel off her shirt, wanting to soothe the tension from her shoulders. She lets out a soft, relieved breath as I massage her tense muscles. A flame of desire stirs in my chest again—this woman is everything to me now, a dangerous addiction that might be my undoing.