The air, weighted with three hundred years of desperate prayer, smells of old wood and the soot of scented candles. The heavily painted figure of the Messiah stands at the center of the church, silent and still, offering his open arms to the devout. The needy. The desperate.

The half-blind priest bolts the front door and gestures to the back of the church. “Me siga.”

I offer him a weak smile, ready to follow him to the only place I thought to hide when Tristan sent me off. With no hesitation, Padre Antonio agreed to give us shelter here tonight. He asked for nothing in return. Even as I am growing to distrust nearly everyone, I have faith in his genuine kindness.

Seeming to sense my somber mood, he pauses and touches my arm gently. His skin is dry and warm to the touch. The simple kindness wraps around me, threatening to unravel my quickly fraying emotions. I blink back tears.

He hushes me and speaks softly in Portuguese. “Rest here, Isabel. Come back when you are ready.” Without another word, he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the empty hall.

I haven’t stepped foot in a place of worship for years. Not since Grace’s funeral. My parents all but turned their backs on Tristan’s tragedy, and in turn, I turned my back on the traditions of our faith.

Still, something faint rings inside me. I can’t remember a time when I’ve needed hope more.

Careful not to disturb the silence, I move up the narrow aisle. Whatever drew me to the church gate yesterday with Tristan on my heels compels me now into the pew and onto my knees. I lean forward, anxiety tight in my belly. The lacquered wood is warm under my palms and against my forehead. A small comfort. I exhale heavily, racked with worry and fatigue.

This unexpected journey with Tristan, fighting for our lives and more, has turned me inside out. It’s made me raw and weak and aimless. Yet even as I long for the safety and security I took for granted every day before, I can’t deny wanting to save Tristan from this nightmare too. I have no idea how I can, though. I’ve never felt more powerless in my life, flung from place to place, kept in the dark by the lover of my past.

How can the broken man I still care for beyond reason be the one to save me? Can he even save himself?

I’m miles from Tristan, but I pray he hears me.

Please.

Please come back to me. Please live.

Please fight for us… Survive for us… Remember us…

Over and over, I whisper my deepest pleas. All the while, visions of the horrific acts I witnessed earlier consume me. I grip the back of the pew tightly, refusing to believe the same fate could come upon Tristan. He’s too strong. Too determined. Too broken to let them win…

I squeeze my eyes against tears. He’s not dead. I’d feel it if he were. I’d know. There’d be an earthquake in my soul. Some kind of sign.

I look up at the cartoonish figure before me. No change in his peaceful countenance. I don’t bow my head again, because this is no longer a quiet prayer. I’m as desperate now as all the troubled, poor, and sick souls who’ve passed through these doors and bruised their knees on the crude floor.

“Help me save him,” I utter amidst the quiet crackle of candles. “Tell me what to do.”

A door slams in the back. I grip the pew with knuckle-whitening force. My heart stutters and then launches into wild beats. Then I hear his voice mingled with the priest’s.

“Tristan.”

I scramble to my feet as he appears from the hallway. He’s disheveled and dirty and bloody, but sweet mercy, he’s alive.

I run toward him and throw my arms around him. “You’re alive.” The word tears like a sob from my throat.

“You’re safe,” he whispers against my hair, holding me almost painfully tight against him.

I mold myself to him as if the surface of my body needs proof of his existence. The more we touch, the more real this is. He catches me closer still.

Only then do I remember the barriers that still exist between us. The reality that came between us last time we were this close. I untangle from our embrace and take a small step back.

“Sorry. I just… I thought you were dead. I was so scared.”

“Not today.”

His hands fall to his sides. Then I realize the blood he’s covered in is his own. A strip of cloth is wound tightly around his upper arm, seeping red and wet. I blink rapidly over my tears and swallow down all the emotion that wants to bubble up.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? You’re bleeding, Tristan. You need a doctor.”

He laughs lightly. “Hardly. I should clean it though.”

I take his hand and lead him back down the hallway to the room the priest promised was ours for the night. The back of the church consists of a desk in the corner, several wooden shelves with old musty books, and a small twin bed that seems freshly made. Before I can ask for cleaning supplies, Antonio emerges from a tiny bathroom with a bowl of water, gauze, and disinfectant gathered up in his arms.

I rush to him. “Here. Let me help you.”

I take the supplies and lay them out on the desk with shaking hands.

“He is your friend?” He speaks in a hushed tone that only I can hear.

His expression is pinched with concern. I can’t imagine how this looks to him. He must know we’re in trouble—or that Tristan is. I glance back to Tristan, who is looking out the windows.

“He’s a friend, yes. Thank you for everything,” I answer quietly.

“Here.” Tristan comes closer, reaching into his bag with his wounded arm and withdrawing a brick of reals.

The father steps back like the offering might burn him. “No, no.”

“Tristan, he doesn’t want it. Come sit so I can dress your wound.”

Tristan stares at the old man, his gaze stoic. “No one can know we’re here. Do you understand?” His Portuguese is heavily nuanced with his American accent.

The father waves his hand again and shakes his head. “You are safe here. I can assure you. I will leave you now. I will bring you food in the morning. Yes?”

Tristan’s frown deepens, but I step between them and place a hand on the priest’s shoulder.

“Thank you. We are so grateful.”

The old man offers me an uneasy smile. Tristan makes him nervous, but I’m beginning to understand why. This is life and death now.

“I will come check on you in the morning,” Antonio says before shuffling out, leaving us alone once more.

“I should have had you give it to him.” Tristan drops the money onto the desk and tugs his T-shirt over his head, leaving only the bloody dressing on his arm.

“He doesn’t need a bribe. He only wants to help.”

“We’ll see,” he mutters. “Are you sure you can handle this?” He glances down and slowly begins unwrapping the dressing.

I swallow hard. Blood has never made me squeamish, but seeing Tristan hurt seems to trigger physical pain of my own. I feel it on the surface of my skin, a painful prickling in my fingertips.

“If you’re not going to see a doctor and get this taken care of properly, then I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

“You know why we can’t.”

“I know,” I say, resigned to these new circumstances by which we’re bound. I recognize we’re in a space where life and death supersede creature comforts. Like a hospital. A hotel. A home.

I collect a cloth and dip it into the warm water. Carefully I work to get the wound clean, hoping to minimize Tristan’s discomfort, though he seems barely affected.

“That looks better.”

“Told you it’d be fine. Just grazed me.”

I roll my eyes, because even though the damage is clean and less gory, the bullet that “grazed” him took a long trail of flesh with it. Even now, I can see it’ll be another scar that no amount of care can prevent. Yet nothing about this seems to give Tristan pause.

“Who were those men, Tristan? Why did Mateus call them your comrades?”

He gazes toward the ceiling as I dab antiseptic on the wound. He doesn’t flinch or speak.

“I don’t understand why they want me dead. What could I have done to bring all this on?”

“I’m guessing you didn’t do anything. But sometimes innocent people can get caught in the crossfire if they’re standing too close to the bad guys.”

He washes his hands and face in the bowl. I place a fresh bandage on his arm as he does, satisfied that the gash is protected for now.

“Your father is obviously connected,” he continues. “Is there anyone else close to you who could be in trouble?”

I frown. “My father has a desk job. He’s not out in the field.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. He can piss people off from his desk. You have no idea what kind of situations he could be involved with.”

I press my lips tightly together. What Tristan’s saying could be true. My father could never talk much about his work due to the confidential nature of it. I grew up knowing this, but nothing about his nine-to-five routine ever bled into our home life to make me think he was into bad things. Certainly nothing akin to the hell I’ve experienced today.

“It’s been a long day.” Tristan’s tone betrays his fatigue.

His eyes are tired but still vibrant. Full of life and the glimmer of determination I recognized as he sent me off with Mateus. He seemed different then. Less heartless captor. More…Tristan.

He sighs and runs his fingertips over my hands, taking them into his. “What would you have done…if I didn’t come back?”

I worry the inside of my lip and try to maintain a brave face, but the possibility of losing him all over again is too fresh. Never mind how I may not have been able to escape with my life when a vehicle full of men with guns were on the hunt for me.

I look away, not trusting myself not to break my composure. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

He pushes my hair over my shoulder, his touch unexpectedly tender. “Me neither,” he says softly.

He weaves his fingers into my hair and drags them gently over my scalp and down my neck. I close my eyes at the sheer relief of his touch. I hear the rough slide of his body coming off the desk, feel the warmth of his proximity. We’re so close that his masculine and earthy scent hits my senses.

When he leans in, I can feel his breath and then the tip of his nose across my cheek. I’m trembling, uncertain if I can handle the sensations his closeness brings. When his lips trail my jaw, my breath hitches.

“Tristan… What are you doing?”

He skims his hands down my arms, splays his palms across my back, and brings me tighter and closer against him.

“I’m remembering you.”

He spins us and lifts me onto the desk, spreading my legs to take the space between them. He steals my next sharp intake of breath with a rough kiss. That quickly, he’s all over my senses. His hands are everywhere, and so are mine. Raking over his broad shoulders, kissing his jagged scars with my fingertips, reclaiming him, one inch at a time.

His stubble scrapes my lips. “Can’t stop. Not this time.”

“No.” God, if he stops now, I’ll never survive.

I’ve been held on the brink for far too long. Starved of Tristan and all the things his touch once inspired. Passion on my skin. Faith in my heart. A future with him in it.

He pulls my shirt over my head and leans in quickly to reclaim my mouth. The kiss is almost bruising in its intensity, but I revel in it. I unhook my bra, let it fall to the floor, and hoist myself closer so our bare chests meet. Close enough to feel the tick-tock rhythm of his heart.

Our exploring touches fill the minutes. My ragged breaths turn to whimpers. Where I was tentative before, I’m frantic now. I press my nails into his flesh, silently begging for more.

He palms my breasts, squeezing and stroking the tender tips until I’m pulsing with desire.

“I need to taste you.” He tucks his hand under the waistband of my shorts, new heat in his eyes.

How many times had I fantasized about this moment since he left? Those words on his lips, that promise lingering in the air between us?

I nod breathlessly, my lips tingling and my skin on fire.

Inch by inch, he draws my shorts down my thighs, baring me completely.

Then his lips are soft and slow, leaving a wet trail over my breasts, down my belly, and over the tiny jewel at my navel, almost all the way to the place where I throb for him.

His next touch is featherlight as he opens me under his hungry gaze. He’s fixated on the space between us. I whimper when he bends, and his exhale barely kisses my flesh. I curl my hands over the edge of the desk. I’m afraid to move another inch, lest he change his mind and leave me this way, so vulnerable and needy.

But he doesn’t back away. He leans in, nudges me wider with his broad shoulders, and consumes my flesh with his mouth. The delicious contact pulls another helpless cry from my lips.

“Do you have any idea what this does to me, Isabel? Being this close to you. Tasting you. Knowing the sounds you make…”

He pauses only a moment before coming at me again. Tasting and taking and tormenting with every wicked lash of his tongue. The more he gives me, the more I need. I’m greedy, ravenous for as much of him as he’ll offer. As if his instincts are linked to mine, he licks me harder, grips me tighter. I fist his hair and struggle to keep up with the sharp incline of sensation.

I’m so close, my hips lifting into his ministrations, when he straightens abruptly. He curves his hand behind my neck and brings us together. “I want the rest of you.” The sound is gritty and molten. Rock and fire.

I reach for the button of his jeans and wrap my legs around his narrow hips.

He kisses me hard, flooding my mouth with the taste of me and this unhinged lust we’re drowning in. He presses his erection against my sex.

“Isabel…” He cups my cheek, forcing my stare to his. “It’s not going to be the same. You need to know that.”

A few heavy seconds pass between us. I believe him and I don’t. I care, and the next second, I’m convinced I don’t. I shake my head as much as his grip on me will allow. “I don’t care.”

His eyes darken with lust and restraint I’m not sure he’ll be able to maintain. Yet he holds back, seemingly unable to take us further. Why?

Because this is more than our two bodies seeking sexual relief. This is my war-torn heart colliding with the reality of our present turmoil. No matter how hard I pray, I’ll never have the Tristan I fell in love with. The man before me—the one who took the slice of a bullet fighting off those men today—is the only one I’ll ever know again.

I exhale a shaky breath, drag my gaze down his scarred chest and back to his haunted eyes. “I’m not the same. I’ve changed too.”

Maybe not on the outside. Maybe not in the ways that matter to a man like Tristan. But at this moment, we’re matched in our intensity. In our brokenness. We’re both empty and unwilling to survive another minute without being filled. What’s this life if we can’t fill the emptiness with each other?

I reach for him, but he takes my arm and shifts me off the desk. His next kiss is different. Sweet and savage. Tender and unapologetic. As if he’s already asking permission for what will happen next. Turning me swiftly to face the table, he holds my wrist behind my back.

His breath is warm at my ear. “Like this.”

I inhale a quick breath to feed the adrenaline spike he’s inspired. I nod. And then I can feel him guiding my legs apart, pushing inside me, filling me. I tense and release, surrendering to the breathtaking feeling. I moan and let my head fall back against his shoulder. He’s a wall of muscle behind me, every inch of his strength governed by the act of consuming the space between us and intimately joining us.

He releases my arm and bands my hips so I feel every inch of his next thrusts.

I slap my hands on the desk, using its steadiness for leverage. A wild heat races across my skin, but the fire burning on the inside is raging, consuming the last of my inhibitions. Obliterating the fear. Calling back memories I’ve kept at a distance for too long.

His free hand roams my flesh, plucking at my breast and then tormenting the place his mouth abandoned with a series of strokes over my clit that inspire even more primal sounds from me. I surrender to his rugged pace and race toward the firestorm of the orgasm I know is coming.

“Tristan… Tristan… Tristan.”

Every iteration of his name on my lips is louder, heavier, matching his drives. The sound is both demand for more and dedication to the climb that isn’t even bliss. It’s air. It’s blood. It’s us. Whatever is left of us now…

That truth sinks into my skin, melting into the places that Tristan has already set on fire until there’s no place else to go.

His tortured groan, his teeth bared and sinking into my shoulder, and the clawing need to release… Everything comes together to push me over.

“Tristan!”

I scream it until he slaps his hand over my mouth, buries himself to the hilt, and muffles the pinnacle moment until I’m wilted and reduced to a series of long, delirious moans into his hot palm.

We collapse together. Me over the desk. He against my back. He surprises me by pushing deeper still. I gasp, and he sighs with such audible satisfaction that my heart squeezes in my chest.

Already I know I need this to mean more to him.

I’ve changed, but I’m wired to love Tristan. My love for him will never stop seeking its reflection. Until he says it again, I’ll survive on those little sounds and the glints of affection in his eyes before they darken with truth I’ve yet to truly understand.

The warm night and our passion cool on our skin. Tristan lifts, and I turn to see him walking away toward the bathroom, zipping himself away. He returns with a warm cloth and offers it to me.

“Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine. I have it covered.” I take the cloth with a shaky hand.

His brows come together a second before he turns away again. He riffles through his bag for another T-shirt as I attempt to put myself together. Physically, I’m there. Dressed. Heart and brain functioning at a semi-normal pattern again. But I still feel scattered all over the room. Vulnerable. A mess of craving and splintered memories.

“What now?”

He glances toward the bed. “Rest, I suppose. We should leave early.”

I take his hand in mine. Unexpected relief floods me when he doesn’t reject the contact.

“Lie down with me.”

“I wasn’t vigilant enough before and nearly got us killed. I’m not letting that happen again.”

“You need to sleep too.”

He threads our fingers tighter. “I’ll be fine. I can keep watch until daybreak. Then we’ll get out of here.”

“Please,” I whisper. “Just a few minutes.”

He takes a deep breath and touches my face gently. “What is it about you?”

I smile, unable to ignore the little flutter of happiness his words give me.

We move together to the little bed. There’s barely enough room for one, but I don’t care. I make it work and use it as an excuse to tangle myself in his familiar warmth. I’m scared to death of losing the magic between us. I just want a few minutes. Then I know I’ll want more.

The church is quiet, save a few concerning creaks that soon become normal sounds. Wind. Tree branches scratching the roof. I sigh and try to turn off the fear that doesn’t ever seem to go away altogether now. I nuzzle against Tristan’s chest and let his scent chase it away a little more.

“Tristan?”

He hums and tucks me a little closer.

“What if they don’t stop looking for us?”

He’s quiet for so long that tendrils of sleep begin to wrap around my thoughts before I hear him finally speak.

“They won’t.”