Page 82 of California Wild

And Caiden?

He wasn’t slowing down.

If anything, he was pushing harder.

And she was starting to wonder if he cared more about the momentum, the fame, the image—than he did about her.

Because he hadn’t noticed she was withdrawing from everything and everyone.

Hadn’t noticed she barely ate.

Hadn’t noticed that she was unraveling and her smile was a curated mask.

And now, here she was, in Perth, staring at her reflection in a hotel bathroom mirror, knowing that the second she took that test, everything would change.

* * * * *

Jesse lay flat on his cot, boots kicked off, sweat sticking the thin fabric of his shirt to his back. The tarp overhead sagged with rain from earlier, heavy and drooping, casting everything beneath it in a thick, green-tinted gloom. The air clung to him like a second skin—humid, heavy, impossible to escape.

He hadn’t been dry in weeks.

The jungle never slept. Not here. Not in this godforsaken corner of the Maluku Islands.

Even now, deep into the night, it breathed around him—low hums, chirps, distant rustling in the underbrush. The soundscape was endless. Alive. There were no edges, no walls, nothing to ground him except the cot beneath his body and the ache in his bones.

He’d stopped noticing the smell—mud, rot, sweat, smoke. The stink of survival. It was in his skin now, soaked into every inch of him, the same way fatigue had crept into his muscles and refused to leave.

He turned his head slightly, caught the faint green shimmer of night-vision lenses across the camp. That was Dom, scanning the treeline in silence, the laser sight on his rifle glinting faintly in the dark. A little closer, Isaac sat hunched over a tablet, whispering back and forth with Colson, who was probably coordinating their next movement with command. Somewherenear the med supplies, Heath was still up—probably organizing the inventory again, methodical as ever.

Jesse closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing.

It didn’t help.

His ribs throbbed—low and constant—still healing from a blade he hadn’t seen coming. Three days of hard movement through thick jungle had pulled at the half-mended tissue, making every breath feel like a punishment. But he hadn’t said a word. Wouldn’t. Heath knew. Jesse had seen the look. But the medic had kept quiet, just handed him a fresh wrap and a painkiller packet without asking questions.

It had been nearly three weeks since they hit the ground.

Three weeks of shit food, bad sleep, and missions with no backup, no exit plan. Just a target and a direction and the constant hum of “don’t fuck this up” in the back of his skull.

They’d staged off the Carl Vinson for the first week, crammed together with the other teams, waiting on green light. Jesse remembered that stretch—antsy, repetitive. A holding pattern.

And then… her.

Hayley Fox, smiling like sin on the cover of some glossy alt-rock magazine. Hand in hand with Caiden Galway.

He hadn’t even been looking for it. One of the younger guys had pulled up the spread while waiting for gear calibration. Just scrolling. Bullshit content. Headlines blaring about “The Future of Punk Royalty” and “Dead Run Riot’s New Power Couple.”

He’d barely looked at the photo.

Didn’t need to.

He could still see her. Could feel the way her body had curled into his, the heat of her skin, the way she’d kissed him like she meant it. Like she still meant it.

Twelve days.

Twelve goddamn days since she’d been in his bed, in his arms, whispering his name like a promise.

Twelve days of silence.

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