The first time he saw her, she stepped into the Los Vaqueros’ briefing room, calm and sharp among hardened soldiers. Alejandro was meant to focus on orders, but all he saw was her.

The way her voice carried when she introduced herself as their medic—steady, professional—was enough to burn into his memory.

From that second, something hooked deep in his chest. A seed of obsession. Querida. That’s what she was. His querida. His.

One Year Later

The knock at her door came rough, uneven. When she opened it, Alejandro filled the doorway—uniform torn, blood soaked into his chest, knife gash still seeping, bruises painting his skin. He should have been in the med bay. He should have been with anyone else.

But no. Never. Only her.

“Mi ángel…” His voice rasped, hoarse and raw. “Only you. Always you.”

He leaned on the frame, swaying slightly, the iron scent of blood heavy in the air. His smile was crooked, half-charm, half-madness.

“Everyone else? They’re nothing. They can’t touch me. Only you can. You’re the only one who heals me, querida.”

He stumbled a step closer, eyes fever-bright, words tumbling in a low rush of Spanish like prayers ripped from his chest.

“Un año entero… one whole year, thinking, dreaming, burning for you.” His hand pressed tighter against his wound, but he laughed, breathless. “And still, this isn’t pain. The only pain I feel is being apart from you.”

His knees nearly gave, and he caught himself against the wall, whispering again in broken Spanish: “Mi luz… mi salvación… mi diosa…”

His gaze locked onto hers, wild devotion glinting beneath exhaustion. Bloodied, trembling, yet reverent—like a worshipper on his knees before his goddess.

“Cúrame, amor. Heal me. Not my body—” His lips curved into something desperate, unhinged. “—heal my soul. Because without you, there’s nothing left of me.”