The river cut through the jungle like a ribbon of silver, steam rising off its surface as the sun bled gold through the trees. Slade knelt at the bank first, checking the current, the shadows, the places a sniper could sit unseen. Old habits. Necessary habits.

Only when he was satisfied did he gesture her forward.

She stepped into the water with a slow, careful grace, wincing as the cool current wrapped around her sore muscles. Mud streaked her arms, dried blood clung to her hairline, and the jungle had chewed on her for days—but the river didn’t care. It took everything she carried and pulled it gently downstream.

Slade stayed half-turned away, giving her privacy without ever letting her out of his sight. Not here. Not in this hell-green maze where everything hunted everything else. He kept one hand on his sword, the other resting on the grip of the pistol holstered at his thigh.

Her shoulders finally loosened. The first real peace he’d seen on her face since he’d dragged her out of that camp.

A leaf snapped somewhere behind them. He didn’t flinch—just shifted his weight, ready to kill whatever thought it could trespass on this tiny, temporary sanctuary. Nothing emerged. The jungle seemed to reconsider.

When she finished, she stepped back to the bank, water beading on her skin, river-slick hair sticking to her cheeks. Slade handed her a towel without a word, eyes sharp but softer than he’d allow anyone else to see.

There were missions, and then there were moments. This one, he guarded harder than anything he’d fought for all week.