Chapter 10: Cellar Shadows

The desert night was restless, even with the storm gone. Zara leaned against her suite's balcony railing, the air cool against her skin, the dunes silent under a sky prickling with stars. Power had been spotty all day—flickering on, then off, the generator wheezing like an old man on its last legs. She'd spent the afternoon editing shots, the buried structure from her photos haunting her screen, but her mind kept drifting to Rylan—his voice in the office, we're not done, the way his touch lingered like a brand. She'd avoided him since, needing space to breathe, but it wasn't working. He was everywhere, even when he wasn't.

Her stomach growled, a sharp reminder she'd skipped dinner, too caught up in her work. The dining area was probably closed, but the bar might have something—crackers, nuts, anything to quiet the ache. She grabbed her flashlight, its beam stronger now with fresh batteries, and headed downstairs, the resort's halls dim and hushed. The lobby glowed faintly, a single lantern on the desk casting long shadows, and the air hummed with the generator's unsteady pulse.

No one was at the bar, the chairs stacked, the counter bare. She sighed, swinging the flashlight around, and spotted a door behind it—unmarked, slightly ajar. A supply room, maybe, or a kitchen stash. She slipped through, the beam catching shelves of glassware, then a narrow stairwell descending into dark. A faint clink echoed up—bottles, she hoped—and she followed it, her boots quiet on the steps.

The wine cellar opened below, a cool, cramped space lined with racks, the air sharp with oak and dust. Rylan stood at the far end, a lantern at his feet, pulling a bottle from a shelf. He froze when her light hit him, his head snapping up, and the sight of him—shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair mussed, a smudge of dirt on his jaw—kicked her pulse into gear.

"Kade," he said, voice low, surprised. "What're you doing down here?"

"Looking for food," she said, stepping off the stairs. "Didn't expect a private tasting."

He smirked, setting the bottle down. "Guests were whining about the bar running dry. Figured I'd restock before they riot."

"Heroic." She swung the flashlight around, spotting a box of crackers on a shelf. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest." He nodded to the crackers, leaning against the rack, and she crossed to grab them, her shoulder brushing his arm as she passed. The contact sparked, brief but electric, and she ignored it, tearing into the box with more force than necessary.

The generator chose that moment to stutter—a low groan, then silence—and the lantern flickered out, plunging them into black. Her flashlight dimmed, then died, the batteries failing at the worst possible time. "Shit," she muttered, shaking it, but it stayed dark, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the faint creak of the racks.

"Perfect," Rylan said, dryly amused, and she heard him shift, his boots scuffing the floor. "Hold on—door's got a latch. We'll get out."

She followed his voice, hands outstretched, and bumped into him, her palm landing on his chest. He stilled, a sharp inhale cutting the silence, and she froze, the heat of him seeping through his shirt. "Sorry," she said, but didn't pull back, her fingers curling slightly against the muscle there.

"Don't be." His voice was rough, closer now, and his hand found her wrist, guiding it down as he turned toward the stairs. "This way."

They shuffled through the dark, her other hand brushing the wall, his grip steady on her. The stairs were narrow, and she pressed against him as they climbed, his back warm and solid. At the top, he fumbled with the latch, cursing under his breath. "Jammed," he said, shoving harder, but it didn't budge. "Storm must've warped it."

"Great," she said, leaning against the wall, the cellar's chill seeping into her back. "Trapped with crackers and wine. Could be worse."

"Could be." He turned, his silhouette faint against the dark, and she felt his eyes on her, heavy and searching. "You okay?"

"Fine," she lied, her pulse thudding too loud to hide. "You?"

"Been better." He stepped closer, the space shrinking, and the air thickened, charged with the memory of their fight, the oasis, every almost they'd danced around. "Zara…"

Her name in his mouth was a spark, and she tilted her head, defiant. "Don't say it unless you mean it, Rylan."

"I mean it." His hand found her waist, tentative at first, then firm, pulling her in. She didn't resist, her hands sliding to his shoulders, and the dark swallowed everything but him—his heat, his scent, the roughness of his breath. "Been driving me crazy," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, and a shiver raced down her spine.

"Good," she whispered, and that was it—the tether snapped. His mouth found hers, hot and hungry, and she surged into him, kissing him back with all the pent-up want she'd buried. It was messy, desperate, teeth clashing as his hands roamed her back, pressing her against the wall. She arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned, low and raw, the sound vibrating through her.

The dark made it sharper—every touch, every gasp amplified. His lips trailed to her jaw, her neck, and she tilted her head, letting him find the pulse there, his stubble scraping her skin. Her hands slid under his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his stomach, and he shuddered, pressing himself closer, his thigh slipping between hers. Heat pooled low, urgent, and she tugged at his shirt, wanting more—more of him, more of this.

"Zara," he rasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead against hers. His hands gripped her hips, steadying them both, and she felt the tremble in them, the restraint. "We can't—not here."

"Why not?" Her voice was wrecked, needy, and she hated it, hated how much she wanted him to keep going. She pressed her lips to his again, softer this time, teasing, and he groaned, kissing her back before breaking away.

"Because I won't stop," he said, his breath ragged. "And you deserve better than a damn cellar."

She laughed, shaky and sharp, her hands still on him. "You're such a gentleman."

"Trying to be." He stepped back, the loss of his heat a shock, and she heard him fumble with the latch again, harder now. It gave with a screech, and faint light spilled in from the bar, dim but enough to see his flushed face, his swollen lips.

She straightened, smoothing her shirt, her skin still buzzing. "Guess we're free," she said, grabbing the crackers she'd dropped, her voice steadier than she felt.

"For now." He held her gaze, a promise simmering there, and she smirked, brushing past him as she climbed out.

The lobby was quiet, the power still off, and she didn't look back as she headed for the stairs, her lips tingling, her body alive with what they'd started. In her suite, she sank onto the bed, the crackers forgotten, and pressed her fingers to her mouth, feeling the echo of his kiss. The cellar had cracked something open, and she knew—knew—they were barreling toward a line they couldn't uncross. Not yet, but soon.