Jake stepped into the warm, lantern-lit interior. The canvas walls glowed soft gold from the single hanging lantern, casting long shadows that danced across the packed-earth floor.
Chelsea sat on the edge of the narrow camp bed, wearing only a thin linen shift that had slipped off one shoulder, her long blonde hair loose and tousled from the day's ride.
She looked up at him, eyes widening with a flicker of surprise and something deeper—relief, hunger, or the old familiar ache of years spent hiding what they were.
"Jake," she breathed, her voice low and urgent.
"You shouldn't be here. The whole camp is awake; somebody will—"
He crossed the small space in two strides, caught her face in both hands, and kissed her like he was starving.
Chelsea moaned into his mouth immediately, her hands fisting the front of his tunic as his tongue pushed past her lips, claiming her. The kiss was filthy and wet, all teeth and hunger.
When he broke it, a thin string of spit connected their mouths.
