The group around the fire doesn't quite look at us, sudden intense interest in the ceiling, the floor, anywhere except our disheveled appearance and obvious satisfaction.
Chad's expression could curdle milk.
The instructor clears his throat. "Storm's passing. Radio says rescue team is mobilizing. Should be here within the hour."
"Good," Orla says, her voice steady and professional despite her kiss-swollen lips and the hickey blooming on her neck that her collar doesn't quite hide. "Everyone stay warm. Maintain the fire. We've survived the worst of it."
I stand behind her, one hand possessively on her waist, daring anyone to comment.
No one does.
Headlights cut through the lingering drizzle exactly forty-three minutes later, multiple vehicles navigating the muddypath, bringing rescue and civilization and all the complicated rules we temporarily escaped.
The CEO steps out of the lead vehicle, his expensive suit somehow still immaculate despite the conditions, his expression unimpressed as he surveys our bedraggled group.
His gaze lands on me and Orla, takes in our proximity, our disheveled state, the way my hand still rests possessively on her waist.
His eyebrow raises a fraction of an inch.
"Well," he says dryly. "I see the team-building exercise was more successful than anticipated."
11
ORLA
The walk back to the vehicles stretches approximately thirty meters but feels like thirty kilometers. Everyone watches, obviously watches, while simultaneously pretending not to watch.
My suit jacket, retrieved from the back room, bears wrinkles that tell stories I'd rather keep private. My hair, normally controlled in its sharp bob, has abandoned all pretense of professionalism. I can feel Thraka's marks on my skin, hidden beneath fabric but burning nonetheless.
"Ms. Peace." The CEO's voice is a drizzle, precise and cold as a scalpel. "Mr. Thraka. You'll ride with me."
Not a question.
Thraka's hand tightens on my waist, protective, possessive. I feel the rumble building in his chest before it reaches his throat.
"It's fine," I whisper, touching his arm. His muscle jumps beneath my fingers, coiled tension ready to spring. "Just a conversation."
"Conversations do not smell like threats," I tell him, keeping my voice low, controlled, aware of the dozen pairs of eyes tracking our every movement across the rain-slicked parking lot.
"How do you even know what corporate threats smell like?" Thraka counters, his accent thickening the way it always does when he's agitated, when the veneer of civilization he's been carefully constructing threatens to crack. His nostrils flare, actually flare, like he's scenting the air for danger.
"They smell like him." Thraka jerks his chin toward the CEO, who waits beside a black SUV with the patience of someone who knows compliance is inevitable. "Like paper and power and cold metal."
Accurate, actually. Disturbingly accurate.
The interior of the CEO's vehicle smells like leather and expensive cologne. Thraka barely fits in the backseat, his knees jammed against the driver's seat, his shoulders too broad for the space. He looks like a bear trapped in a taxi.
I sit beside him, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. Professional. Contained. Completely at odds with the fact that I can still feel him inside me, still taste him on my lips.
The CEO doesn't speak during the drive back to the main lodge. Doesn't need to. The silence does his work for him, building pressure, creating anxiety.
I've sat through enough board meetings to recognize the tactic, the calculated silence, the manufactured tension, the way powerful men wield quiet like a weapon. Let the subordinates sweat. Let them imagine all the possible consequences. Let anxiety do the heavy lifting so the actual punishment feels like relief.
My Fitbit buzzes against my wrist, the vibration sharp and accusatory. Heart rate elevated. Again. Still. The little digital display shows numbers that would concern a medical professional: one hundred and twelve beats per minute while sitting motionless in luxury leather upholstery. My resting heart rate used to be a perfectly optimized sixty-two. Now my body treats baseline existence like cardiovascular exercise.
Thraka takes my hand, threading his massive fingers through mine, the gesture startlingly gentle from someone who broke a conference table on his first day.
The CEO's eyes flick to our joined hands in the rearview mirror, the glance so brief and clinical it could almost be mistaken for checking blind spots. Almost. But I know better. I've spent years in boardrooms learning to read the micro-expressions powerful men think they've mastered, the tiny tells that betray calculation beneath carefully cultivated neutrality.
