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Miguel did a quick head count, found everyone present, and led them on to the next scenic stop without ever realizing two vehicles had been gone.
The drive back to the resort took another hour, the sunset painting the jungle in shades of amber and gold. Parrots flew overhead in raucous flocks. Howler monkeys called from the canopy, their voices carrying through the deepening twilight.
Brock’s hand found hers on the seat between them. It was such a simple gesture. She wasn’t alone anymore. She had someone beside her who saw the real woman—saw her strength and her brokenness and her desperate need to save everyone—and loved her anyway.
Because that’s what this was, she realized. Love. Building slowly between them over seven years, and now finally acknowledged in the midst of crisis.
“What are you thinking?” Brock asked .
“That I’m glad you’re here. That I don’t have to do this alone.”
His smile was soft, intimate in the growing darkness. “You’re never going to have to do anything alone again. I hope you know that.”
“I’m starting to,” she said.
By the time they returned to the resort, full darkness had fallen and the property was lit up like something from a dream. They climbed out at the main entrance, and Brock’s arm came around her waist.
“Dinner at twenty hundred hours,” Nate said as he passed. “All four of us. We’ll go over tomorrow’s timeline.”
Back in their suite, Brock sent the intel packet to Atticus while Elena stood on the terrace, watching the ocean turn silver under the rising moon. The sound of the waves was hypnotic, eternal.
She felt him come up behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said. “For earlier. For calling me on my bullshit but also…for understanding why.”
“I’ll always understand why.” His lips brushed her temple. “You have the biggest heart of anyone I know. You feel responsible for everyone. It’s one of the things I lo—” He caught himself, the word dying unfinished. “One of the things I admire most about you.”
She turned in his arms, looking up at him in the moonlight. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. It’s not—” He sighed. “It’s not the right time.”
“For what?”
He looked at her for a long moment, something intense and vulnerable in his expression. “For telling you all the things I want to tell you. For saying words you might not be ready to hear. Tomorrow’s already going to be emotional enough without me adding to it.”
“Brock—”
“After,” he said firmly. “After we get Marguerite back, after you’ve had time to breathe, after the crisis is over—then we’ll talk about us. About what this is and what it could be. Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed.
She turned back to the ocean. His arms tightened around her, and neither of them spoke again. The waves kept coming, indifferent and eternal, and for a little while that was enough.
After a while she stepped out of his arms and moved toward the bathroom. "I need to shower. All that jungle dust."
"Good idea." He started to turn away.
"Brock." She looked back at him over her shoulder. "I want you to join me."
Chapter Nine
The words hung between them. She watched surprise flicker across his face, followed by heat, then concern.
“Are you sure?” His voice was rough.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for everything, if you know what I mean. But we could start in slow steps. Learn each other. I can learn to let you touch me.” She reached up to cup his face, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her palm. “I’m tired of being careful, Brock. Tired of letting what they did to me control what I can have now. And I—” Her voice wavered. “I want this. I want you. But I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
