"I missed you…" Atlas voiced, barely above a whisper.
The words slipped from his mouth like a knife wrapped in silk. They lingered, too soft to be a threat, too sharp to ignore.
Eli didn't flinch—but she didn't need to. Her silence was enough. Inside, the words landed like an arrow, fast and uninvited, hitting a place she'd spent years burying under strategy, conquest, and unrelenting command. Her body betrayed no weakness. Her hands didn't tremble. Her spine didn't bend.
But something broke. A soundless, private crack behind the fortress of her ribs.
Damn him. Damn him for remembering. Damn her for wanting to say the same.
She should've dismissed it. She tried. Oh, God, how she tried. But every waking hour—every night carved by insomnia—he appeared. His voice, that grin, the warmth in a war-torn tent under blood-soaked moons. And now here he was again, daring to be soft when everything around them reeked of smoke and ash.
