I never planned to breed her in that dust-choked alley at dawn. Isla's palm lingered on the scar along my forearm long after the map was forgotten, her chin lifted in that quicksilver defiance that always cracks when my grip tightens.
She fears she cannot hold an outlaw who might ride away once the raid ends. I fear the same, yet the need to claim her with my seed, to mark her against every rival who would seize what is mine, overrides every wall we both pretend to keep. Footsteps close in and neither of us steps back.
