Each strike echoes through me, flaring like a live wire across already sensitive skin. Only, not all of it feels like a punishment—not entirely—and I hate it.No, I want it.Shame curls in my belly, the hot flush seeping up my neck to my face. I hate that the burn on my ass has nothing on the ache blooming between my thighs. I’m not only flushed with shame. I’maroused.
Another crack of his hand yanks me back from my thoughts. This time, my breath hitches. Each punishing spank fans the flame growing inside me. I hate how it feels—how it lights me up from the inside out—dragging back every memory I’ve fought to forget: every night he had me under him, over his knee, whimpering his name, and trusting him to push me past my limits. He was always good at knowing exactly where that line was and when to cross it.
“I might not be your Daddy,” he bites out, his tone cruel inits intimacy, “but you willfucking listen… at least aboutthis.”
I go still, not limp, not submissive, but still, because those words hurt more than the spanks ever could. They are full of old echoes and bitter truths. Because he oncewasmy Daddy. And I’d have followed his orders without hesitation.At least about this.
Now? Now we’re two ghosts circling the ruins of who we used to be.
He adjusts me in his hold as we reach the tent, and the humiliation spikes all over again when he pulls open the tent and carries me inside. The air shifts, the guys falling quiet. Too quiet. It’s the silence of everyone pretending to ignore what is happening before them.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could vanish into the dusty ground, but Chris doesn’t so much as falter. He carries me straight to my cot like a man on a mission, then drops me onto it. I land hard, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through me as my sore backside meets the thin mattress. I can’t stop the hiss that escapes my lips as I shift, trying to sit upright, to preserve what little dignity I have left.
‘You will stay put or I’ll tie you to bed,” he grouses with annoyance and a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
I don’t know what burns worse—my pride or my ass.
My body still throbs from the walk back. Every step Chris took felt like a warning, ringing through my skin. His hand landed again and again, firm with authority. And each time it did, the humiliation seared deeper. It wasn’t just physical; it was personal.
And now, as I sit stiffly on the edge of my cot, eyes fixed on the seam in the tent wall, all I can think about is the way it felt. The pain and the sweet burn of his palm through the fabric. The way his voice dropped low, taut with frustration. How I felt the tension in his grip, not just from anger, but from his restraint.
The cot beneath me creaks when I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me wince. My backside throbs, the sting lingering, like the echo of a fight I didn’t win—and didn’t want to lose. Because the truth is unbearable. As much as I hated the humiliation, part of me welcomed it. Welcomedhim. The anger in his voice, the command in his touch, they brought me back to something I’d locked away. Not the pain. Not the control. But thecloseness.
For one heartbeat, I didn’t feel alone in the world. And that terrifies me more than anything else.
I glance across the tent, not daring to lift my head. Just enough to see him through my lashes. Chris hasn’t moved. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, legs stretched long in front of him, one ankle hooked over the other. A single boot taps rhythmically, probably without him realizing. His jaw is tense, a tic flaring at the edge as he stares blindly across the tent. He’s brooding.
I still know him. Even now. Even after all the years of silence and time and miles. I press my forehead to the pillow, wishing I had privacy to shriek out my frustration.
My throat aches with the pressure of everything I haven’t said.And want to say.My heart pounds, loud and frantic. I want to scream at him. I want to throw something. I wantto demand he actually talk to me. Hell, I want him tolookat me instead of spending the day pretending I’m invisible.
The day passes awkwardly. Night falls, and the silence in the tent grows deafening as the others drift to sleep or at least pretend to. Damon and Gunnar both sleep turned away from us, and Jagger’s light snores rise and fall beside me. And I lie uncomfortably on my cot with a sore backside and a wildfire burning inside me that I’m wishing Chris would tame.
I shift again, wincing. I should sleep. Ineedsleep. But I can’t, not while he’s sitting across from me like a wall I can’t climb. Finally, I sit up, slow and stiff. The blanket falls from my shoulders, and the cool air brushes against my skin. I look across the tent in the near-darkness at Chris’s back, wondering if he is still awake.
“You didn’t have to do it like that,” I whisper loudly, trying not to disturb the others. When I don’t get a response, I try again—louder and a little more daring. “Is this how you deal with every woman who doesn’t follow your orders?”
He rolls on his cot and lifts his head—barely—his gaze locking on mine. “You’re not every woman,” he states simply, before lying back on his pillow.
God. Fucking. Damn. Him.
We fall silent again. I bury my head in my pillow, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable enough to finally fall asleep. “I didn’t go out there because I wanted to die,” I whisper after a moment. “I went because what I sawmatters.”
He rolls onto his side so that he can look at me without lifting his head. “And I didn’t drag you back here because I wanted to humiliate you.” His voice is deep and raw. “I did it because I’m not burying you because you’re too stubborn to listen.”
That steals the breath from my chest, and I struggle to find a response. “I’m not yours to protect anymore.”
“Maybe not,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean I ever stoppedwantingto.”
The silence between us stretches long and taut. All I can do islookat him. And all he does is stare right back.
We are fire and ruin, and neither of us knows how to put the other out.
The wind outside sounds like sandpaper against the tent, relentlessly scratching with every swift blow. I lie on my cot, eyes wide open, staring at the canvas ceiling as the wind pushes against it in slow, billowing waves.
It’s been hours of blissful silence. The guys are outside, making arrangements for tomorrow’s departure, leaving me to keep an eye on Reese. Their absence gives the tent an unnatural stillness, broken only by the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. Even her usual restless sighs have quieted into something gentle, almost peaceful. Sleep that tranquil won’t be coming for me. Not tonight. There’s a twist in my gut I can’t shake—an itch of intuition that refuses to be ignored. Reese’s little stunt the other day isn’t doing my nerves any favors, either. She may not have gotten far before I caught up with her, but the damage was done. She had to log her attempted detour with the operations hub to request an escort. Now they know she saw something. Worse: they know she’s interested enough to go back.
The wind gusts hard. But it isn’t the groan of the tent or the creak of someone’s cot that catches my attention. Over the sandstorm, the soft, slow rip of fabric is barely audible, yet it booms through the tent like an alarm. The sound comes again, slower this time, followed by the whisper of boots against sand. Someone is determined enough to be cutting through the back of the tent again.
