Night on Jaguar Ridge was usually a symphony of insects and distant thunder, but tonight, the loudest sound was the grinding of Lucas Sinclair's teeth.
He sat by the fire, staring into the flames. He was clean(ish), thanks to the wet-wipe bath he'd managed to take, but he felt dirtier than he ever had in his life. The blindfold challenge had shaken him—not just the fear of falling, but the terrifying realization that for twenty minutes, he had completely trusted the woman he had betrayed.
He looked across the fire.
Aria was sitting on her log throne, sharpening her machete with a smooth, rhythmic rasp. The firelight danced on her rose-gold hair, making her look like a warrior queen from a fantasy novel. She looked powerful. Lethal. And she hadn't looked at him once since they stepped off the cliff.
Then he looked to his left.
