Gasping for breath, Amelia clutched the yellowed papers. Her heart hammered against her ribs, echoing the frantic thud of Rhys’s beside her. The air, thick with dust and the smell of old paper, tightened in her throat. “Atlas Industries,” Rhys rasped, his voice raw. He pointed to a recurring logo on the documents, a stylized globe. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching. 'The Collector wasn't after me,' she murmured, the realization a cold dread. 'I was just bait.' Rhys’s eyes, dark and stormy, met hers. A profound anger simmered there, but also something else—a protective fire she hadn’t seen directed at her in years. Screeching metal tore through the quiet. A massive beam above them groaned, showering them with plaster and debris. The entire vault trembled, dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering from the crack in the floor above. “We have to move!” Rhys yelled, grabbing her arm. His grip was firm, almost bruising, pulling her towards the crumbling entrance. Running felt impossible. Her legs felt heavy, weighed down by the terror. Another tremor shook the ground, sending a cascade of stones from the ceiling. Ahead, the passageway was barely visible through the swirling dust. Rhys shielded her face with his arm, pulling her closer, his body a solid barrier against the falling debris. Stumbling, they navigated the tight, dark corridor. The rhythmic crash of the manor above them grew louder, closer. Each step was a gamble, the floor threatening to give way. “Almost there!” Rhys shouted, his voice strained. He pushed her forward, his hand warm on the small of her back, guiding her through the chaos. Finally, they burst out into the relative safety of the collapsing main hall, now a gaping maw of splintered wood and exposed rebar. The moonlight streamed in through the shattered roof, illuminating the wreckage. Outside, the air was sharp and cold. They stumbled down the overgrown path, away from the groaning skeleton of Blackwood Manor. Only when they reached the wrought-iron gates, far enough to feel the chill of the night rather than the heat of danger, did they stop. Amelia doubled over, hands on her knees, sucking in deep gulps of air. Her lungs burned. Her entire body ached. Rhys stood beside her, his chest heaving. His usually impeccable suit was torn, streaked with dirt and dust. A trickle of blood ran from a cut above his temple. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice softer now, edged with concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, wiping away a smudge of grime. His touch sent a jolt through her. It was so unexpected, so tender. She looked up, her gaze locking with his. In his eyes, the anger had receded, replaced by an intensity that made her breath catch. The danger had stripped away their pretenses, their carefully constructed walls. They were just two people who had faced death together. “I’m… I’m fine,” she whispered, the words barely audible. Her heart, still racing, wasn't just from the escape. Memories flooded back. Nights spent tangled together, mornings filled with hushed promises, the way his hand felt in hers, the possessive warmth of his gaze. Everything they had lost, everything they had buried, felt suddenly, terrifyingly, alive again. He stepped closer, closing the small gap between them. The scent of him—smoke, dust, and his unique, intoxicating cologne—filled her senses. It was a familiar comfort, a forgotten ache. “Those documents,” he said, his voice a low growl,

Chapter 36: Reawakened Longings