The bottle’s still in the dirt behind me. So is the last shred of my fucking sanity. I walk toward the tents but I don’t go back to mine.
I head straight for the medical outpost because I need to see her. Even if she looks through me like I’m a ghost. Even if she already gave my place to someone else. Even if all I can do is stand in the shadows and remember how she looked with syrup on her thighs and my name on her lips.
Chapter
Twenty
Cassandra
The night outside the medic tent hangs heavy and humid, the air thick with the scent of dried sweat, diesel fumes, iron, and sand that never seems to settle. The distant thunder of artillery rumbles beneath the quiet like a second heartbeat, too faint to shake the ground but too constant to ignore. A single lantern flickers near the entrance, the bulb barely clinging to life as moths dance around it, wings tapping the thin metal frame like soft, frantic warnings.
Inside, the world feels even smaller.
The canvas walls sag with heat, trapping the smell of antiseptic, iodine, and old blood beneath a layer of stale humidity. The hum of machinery vibrates in the air—steady, relentless, almost a rhythm. A generator outside coughs every few minutes, rattling the surgical trays stacked near the wall.
The monitors hum their tired lullaby.
One long beep for a heartbeat.
One soft hiss for the oxygen feed.
Mason’s chest rises shallow but steady, like a man trying to trick death into thinking he’s already gone. I adjust the line on his IV, check his pulse again, check it a third time just to make sure. Stable. For now.
The canvas walls sweat around me, heavy with heat and the smell of antiseptic that never quite masks the iron. It’s late. Too late. The tent is quiet except for Mason’s ragged breathing and my own.
And then—The flap rips open.
The air shifts instantly—dust rushing in on the back of a hot wind, lantern light bending, the soft clatter of hanging forceps chiming like startled bells.
Boots drag across the floor. Heavy. Uneven.
I look up—And there he is.
Dax Kingston.
Stumbling. Shoulders bent like the whole fucking desert is weighing him down. Eyes too bright, too wild, too lost. His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a scar.
God. He’s drunk.
“Dax,” I whisper, stepping forward, heart cracking open without permission. “You shouldn’t be here?—”
“Fuck, Butterfly…” His voice is low, wrecked, raw. His gaze pins me like he’s never seen me before, like I’m the only real thing left in a world made of dust. He drags a hand down his face, and when it drops, he’s smiling. Not sweet. Not sane. Something broken and dangerous and desperate. “Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
My breath hitches. “Dax?—”
He sways closer, boots heavy, eyes locked on me like I’m the only target that matters.
“You don’t even try,” he slurs. “Just… stand there. Breathing. And you ruin me.”
The tent feels smaller. Hotter. The buzzing fluorescent flickers overhead, struggling to stay alive. My body freezes, every muscle strung so tight it hurts to breathe.
But all I can think is—He’s looking at me again.
Really looking.
Like he used to.
Like I’m still his.
