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“Get used to it.” I stretch out beside her, pulling her against my chest. “This is part of being mine, too. I take care of what belongs to me.”

She nestles into me, her head finding that perfect spot on my shoulder.

“Every time you trust me with something new, I learn more about who you really are. Not the mask you wear for everyone else, but the real Audrey.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

“Sometimes I forget who that is. The real me, I mean. I’ve been playing a role for so long.”

“I know who she is.” I tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me. “She’s an artist who sees beauty where others miss it. She’s brave enough to chase her dreams even when everyone tells her they don’t matter. She’s passionate and wild and fucking perfect exactly as she is.”

Tears gather in her eyes, and I brush them away with my thumb.

“You can’t make me cry after making me come that hard. It’s against the rules.”

“My rules,” I remind her. “I make them, I can break them.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why does everyone call you Reign?”

My body tenses involuntarily.

Of all the questions she could ask, this one cuts straight to the core of who I became in the desert. The man who earned that name feels like a stranger sometimes, and other times he’s so close to the surface I can taste the sand and blood.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says quickly, sensing my hesitation.

“No, you should know.” I shift us so we’re facing each other, needing to see her face when I tell this story. “It happened in Kandahar. My second deployment.”

Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. The simple touch grounds me as memories flood back.

“There was this kid who came to our outpost. Amara. Ten years old, maybe eleven. Skinny as a rail but tough as nails.” A ghost of a smile crosses my face. “She’d show up every few days selling cigarettes and candy bars. Spoke better English than half my squad.”

“You got close to her?”

“We all did. Martinez taught her card tricks. Johnson shared his care packages. Even our hardass sergeant would slip her extra MREs.” I stare at the ceiling, seeing her gap-toothed grin instead of wooden beams. “Command kept telling us to maintain distance from locals, but Amara... She was just a kid trying to survive.”

Audrey stays silent, her thumb stroking over my knuckles.

“One week, she didn’t show. First day, we figured she was sick. Second day, maybe trouble at home. By the fourth day, we knew something was wrong.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “Intel finally came through. Local militia grabbed her and her little brother. Thought they were passing information to us.”

“Oh, no,” Audrey breathes.

“By the time we got the intel, her brother was already dead.” The words taste like ash. “Seven years old. They killed a seven-year-old boy for talking to Americans.”

Her hand tightens on mine, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“I went to my CO. Begged for permission to mount a rescue op. He said no. Too risky. Potential diplomatic incident. Couldn’t justify resources for one local national.” I feel the old rage building, the same fury that consumed me that night. “I stood in his office and listened to him write off a little girl’s life like she was collateral damage.”

“What did you do?”

“What I had to.” I meet her eyes, wanting her to understand. “I took four volunteers. Guys who loved that kid as much as I did. We went in at 0200, completely dark.”

The compound materializes in my mind—low walls, two guards, the main building where intel said they were holding her. I can still smell the diesel fuel and goat shit, feel the weight of my gear, hear Crutchfield’s breathing in my earpiece.

“We found her in a back room.” My voice goes flat, clinical. It’s the only way to tell this part. “What they’d done to her... Christ, Audrey. She was ten years old.”