Chapter Two
Lilly Rose
The transport plane hit the ground with a jolt that rattled her spine and reminded her exactly where she was: the middle of nowhere, dust and danger, heat thick enough to swallow a person whole.
Lilly Rose clutched her duffel tighter and tried to ignore the way her stomach twisted. Not from fear—no, not exactly. Nerves, sure. But fear? She'd learned how to bury that a long time ago.
She wasn't here to play nurse. She was here to survive. To help others do the same.
A voice barked her name as she stepped off the plane. "Rose!"
She turned to find a grizzled man with a clipboard, sweat soaking through his uniform. "That's me."
"Medical tent's that way. You're reporting to Lieutenant Riley." The way he said the name—low, cautious, almost like a warning—made her pause.
"Something I should know?"
He didn't answer. Just gave a half-smirk and walked off.
Great. She adjusted the strap on her bag and headed in the direction he'd pointed. The heat was oppressive, and the scent of oil and gunpowder clung to everything. This wasn't like the clean, sterile hospital she'd trained in. This was raw, alive, and cracked open at the seams.
As she reached the tent, a man stepped out of the shadows like a ghost conjured from nothing.
Tall. Built like a brick wall. Black tactical gear, half his face covered by a dark mask. His eyes, though—icy, unreadable, locked onto her like a sniper scope.
"Lilly Rose," he said flatly. Not a question. A statement. More like a challenge.
"That's me," she replied, lifting her chin.
"You're late."
She blinked. "I was literally on the first transport out of the compound. Did you want me to parachute in?"
Silence.
Okay, maybe sarcasm wasn't the best opening move.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You've got three patients waiting. Gunshot wound, dehydration, and a concussion. No one's got time to hold your hand here."
"Good. I'm not the hand-holding type."
A flicker of something—surprise? Amusement?—passed through his eyes before it vanished. "We'll see."
He turned and stalked toward the tent, expecting her to follow without looking back.
What a charmer, she thought, gritting her teeth.
So this was Lieutenant Simon Riley. Cold, clinical, all sharp edges and no warmth. The kind of man who expected people to follow orders without question—and hated softness in any form.
Too bad for him.
She hadn't come all this way to be quiet or compliant.
He'd learn that soon enough.