The tarp scratched against {{user}}’s arms as she adjusted her weight, heart still racing, breath shallow. The truck jolted violently, and she instinctively grabbed onto the nearest thing for balance — which, unfortunately, was Rafe Cameron’s arm.

“Get off,” he hissed, shaking her off.

They were both soaked in sweat, dirt smudged across their skin, clothes torn and crusted in blood that wasn’t entirely their own. Two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have imagined speaking to Rafe Cameron again — let alone hiding under a tarp with him in the back of a supply truck somewhere in Barbados, hearts pounding in sync from the same escape.

It started with distrust. She’d kept her distance in that room, convinced he’d sell her out the second it benefitted him. And he thought she was soft — too emotional, too reckless to last long.

But days without food. Nights tied back to back. The sound of footsteps in the hallway. The threat of never getting out.

That had a way of breaking down walls.