Page 40 of Risky Passion

Onyx stopped, nose low to the ground, ears twitching like radar dishes. I froze, scanning the shadows around us. The swamp had plenty of sounds: croaks, chirps, rustling leaves, and every time something splashed into a puddle, Tory just about launched out of her skin. That crocodile attack she’d witnessed would likely haunt her forever.

The sun slid toward the horizon, draining the last scraps of daylight and bathing the swamp in shadows. Visibility was dropping fast.

"It's getting dark," I said, breaking the uneasy silence between us. “This was not how I pictured spending my Sunday.”

"Me neither." Tory's voice carried an edge of exhaustion. "Funny, when I woke up this morning, 'trek through a swamp' wasn't on my to-do list."

I chuckled. "You had better plans?"

She barked out a laugh that held no humor.

"Oh yeah. Wild night of binge-watching Australian Survivor with my cats. We’ve been stockpiling episodes." Her breath caught. "Ironic, right? Now I'm living it."

"Better be one hell of a reward at the end of this challenge."

"Maybe we should start looking for immunity idols." She shot me a sidelong glance, and we laughed.

But our laughter died as reality pressed in with the darkness. This wasn't a game show in the Outback. No producers to call cut, no medical team standing by. Just us, the swamp, and whatever was hunting us through it.

“So, what about you?” she said. “Have any grand plans for tonight?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t had plans . . . until we found that fresh grave. I wanted to tell her, but my brothers and I had agreed that we couldn’t tell anyone about that body at Angelsong. But Tory wasn’t just anyone. And she didn’t seem like someone who’d get caught up in the criminal shitshow that had been plaguing Rosebud and Risky Shores for years.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation. “You don’t have to tell me.”

I groaned. “It’s not that.”

The air was thick and humid enough to chew, and the mosquitoes buzzed in a maddening chorus around my head.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a safety issue.”

“Safety?” She arched a brow. “Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

“Cryptic.” Her tone could’ve cut glass. She stomped a twig into splinters. “You know what I can’t figure out, Jaxson?”

“Why those guys were shooting at you?” I suggested.

"Oh, I know exactly why." Something lethal crept into her voice, and I turned to face her.

“They were drug runners. I caught them dumping cargo and filmed them doing it. They shot my plane down and figured I’d die in the crash. When I didn’t, they chased me into the swamp to finish the job.” She paused to level her gaze at me.

"I'm glad I found you first." The words felt inadequate even as I said them.

“Yeah, about that. My plane crashed in criminal territory. This swamp is known for drug runners and people smugglers. Major criminals.” She spread her arms to the wild scenery around us, but her eyesnarrowed on me. “And yet hereyouare, shirtless, acting weird, and keeping secrets from me.”

"I'm not keeping secrets, I—" I stopped myself, letting out a frustrated breath. "Look, it's getting dark. Just stay close, okay?"

I marched forward with Onyx trotting in front of me.

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere." Her tone dripped with sarcasm, but there was an edge beneath it . . . frustration maybe or fear. Her footsteps squelched behind me in the muck.

The swamp's muggy air clung to my skin like a warning.

"Of all the places to crash . . . it had to be a croc-infested swamp," I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

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