His job mattered. His responsibilities. The canyon and everyone in it.
But Nimue?
She was everything.
He’d give it all up—badge, home, his place here, even his own life—if it meant keeping her safe. The realization settled into his bones. He’d protect her.
No matter the cost.
“We need to keep moving.” He helped her to her feet, brushed dirt from her knee with a tenderness that belied the urgency thrumming through him. “We’re putting distance between us and them.”
Miles of it.
She nodded, jaw set, and fell into step beside him. The canyon stretched ahead—towering walls, endless shadows, a maze of stone that could hide them or trap them.
Didn’t matter.
The Bratva could come. They’d have to go through him first.
Nimue’s legs ached, her hand throbbed beneath its bandage, and the weight of the day pressed down like the oppressive heat. They hadn’t made nearly enough progress.
A landslide had swallowed their first trail two hours back—a cascade of melon-sized boulders and scree that Liam had taken one look at and shaken his head. Too unstable. Death trap.
So they’d backtracked. Lost an hour. Precious time bleeding away while they took a steeper, more punishing path down the cliff face.
Now, with light fading and water bottles nearly empty, Nimue’s adrenaline was crashing. Giving way to something that felt dangerously close to panic.
She stole a glance at Liam. His silhouette cut sharp against the canyon’s jagged skyline as he led the way. Strong. Confident.
They were completely exposed out here. Vulnerable.
The Bratva might not find them in this maze of stone and shadow, but the elements? Just as deadly. Heat hammered down, relentless, air so dry it scraped her throat raw with every breath.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Liam stopped. Pointed to a narrow stream trickling through the canyon floor, surface catching the last dying light. “We’ll cowboy camp here.” Rock steady, even now. “It’s too dark to keep going. One wrong step near an edge…” He didn’t finish. “And we need water.”
Nimue nodded, her throat too parched to argue. She dropped her pack, wincing as every muscle protested. Liam was already moving—efficient, focused—setting up some kind of filtration system by the stream.
He was here because of her.
Risking everything for a mess she’d dragged him into. The realization of all he’d done for her, all he’d risked, sat in her stomach like a stone.
Liam seemed satisfied with his setup of bags and tubes, then walked over and knelt by his pack.
“Dinner options.” He pulled out several packets. “Beef stew, chicken teriyaki, chili mac, veggie pasta, or southwest chicken.” He held them up like a waiter presenting fine wine. “Pick your poison.”
She blinked. Half expected him to grin, admit that this was some kind of joke.
He just waited for her answer.
“You’re serious?”
“I promise they sound better than they taste.” A ghost of a smile. “But they’ll keep us going.”
“The mac one.”
He shoved the rest back and pulled out what had to be the world’s smallest camp stove. “Backcountry ranger life. Emergencies don’t wait for convenient timing—lost hikers, flash floods, you name it.” Water started heating with a soft hiss. “Keep my Bronco loaded for trips like this.”