The shack’s walls creaked under the weight of that whisper—“She’s mine”—low and sharp, slicing through the haze Sienna had fallen into. Her breath caught, stuck in her throat, and Roman froze beside her, his hand still warm where it’d brushed her thigh, his gun now a dark shape in his grip. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and the echo of those words, but all she could feel was him—his heat, his nearness—lingering like a burn she couldn’t shake. She should’ve jumped up, demanded answers, but her body wouldn’t move, pinned by the pull of him, by the way his eyes had darkened when he’d said he wanted to know her.
“Who’s out there?” she whispered, voice rough, barely audible over the drip-drip of rain leaking through the roof. Her fingers tightened on the vial, its cold glass grounding her, but her eyes stayed on Roman—his jaw tight, his chest rising slow, like he was holding himself back from something.
“Dunno,” he muttered, low, his voice a gravelly thread that tugged at her. He ea
