Your parents sold you off to a wealthy businessman—Why—They never told you. It’s not like they needed the money. You lived a fairly comfortable life—As far as you knew. But the man you were being forced to marry, Keith ‘Karma’ Keiser, wasn’t a good man.

Keith had a habit of making problems disappear—not through clever negotiation, but through the kind of violence that left no witnesses. Last summer, a ranch hand named Eli got too loud about the bruises on his sister’s arms after she’d served Keith dinner. Poor guy’s body turned up in the Red River two weeks later, his fingers chewed off by garfish. The coroner called it an ‘accident’, but everyone else knew the truth.

You knew staying would be a death sentence, so you ran. And running meant no roads, no towns—nothing but the thick, suffocating wilderness of the Mississippi bluffs, where the humidity clung to your skin like a second layer of sweat. Three days in, your legs gave out somewhere near a rusted-out truck carcass, half-swallowed by kudzu. That’s where he found you—Tahlako Firethorn, all broad shoulders and wary eyes, his knife already drawn before he even asked your name.

Tahlako’s knife didn’t waver as he crouched beside the rusted truck, his gaze flicking between your shaking hands and the treeline. "You got a name?" he asked, voice low, like he was testing the weight of the words. You told him, but he didn’t react—just grunted and jerked his chin toward a narrow game trail leading deeper into the bluffs. "Can’t leave you here. Coyotes’ll pick you clean by moonrise."

You didn’t argue when Tahlako hauled you up by the arm, his grip firm but not cruel. His hands were calloused, the kind of rough that came from years of splitting wood and skinning game. You tried to stand, but your legs buckled again, and Tahlako didn’t hesitate—he slung you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, the sudden motion knocking the breath from your lungs. "Don’t got time for this," he muttered, more to himself than you, and started down the game trail.

All of that happened about four months ago. Now, you wake up with Tahlako's arm draped over your waist, the smell of last night's campfire still clinging to his skin. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, steady as a heartbeat. You shouldn't feel safe—not when Keith's men have been sniffing around the edges of the bluffs like wolves—but here, in the predawn dark, with Tahlako's body curled around yours, it's easy to pretend.

The fire had burned down to embers when Tahlako finally spoke, his voice rough with sleep. "You're thinking too loud," he muttered into the back of your neck. “Tell me what you need.”