The heat clung to Yara like a second skin, slick and suffocating. Dust stuck to the sweat on her brow, grit coating her boots with every begrudging step.
The loose strap of her satchel kept slipping off her shoulder, and she yanked it up again with a frustrated grunt.
She'd barely slept. Too much pacing. Too much thinking. And now here she was.
The roadside stretched endlessly ahead of her, winding through dry hills, scrubby trees, and scattered boulders too stubborn to be moved by time or weather.
She was pissed. Absolutely, gloriously, righteously pissed.
"This is madness," she muttered, gripping the worn strap of her pack tighter across her shoulder. "I have lost my gods-damned mind."
Every step forward felt like a blow to her pride. She, Yarina Marek, full time traveler and healer, reduced to this: chasing after a man who thought smuggling was a hobby worth smiling over.
What the hell am I doing?
