Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sulla
Day nine. The challenge is river crossing.
Mac briefs us at the water’s edge about a half a mile from our compound. The river is wide—maybe forty feet across—and moving fast. White water visible over rocks in the center. The water temperature, Mac tells us cheerfully, is approximately eleven degrees Celsius, fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit.
“Cold enough to cause hypothermia within thirty minutes of immersion,” he says.
“You and your partner will cross together. Roped safety line is available but using it adds five minutes to your time. A fixed guide rope is anchored across the river for teams who elect to use it. Most of you won’t need it if you’re smart and careful. Questions?”
No one asks questions. We all know this is going to be miserable.
Reid and I assess the crossing point. The current is strong but there’s a line of larger rocks creating a slightly calmer path. Still dangerous. Still freezing. But navigable.
“Safety line?” I ask.
Reid shakes her head. “Adds too much time. We can make it without.”
“Agreed. I’ll go first, test the current. You follow my path exactly.”
“Why you first?”
“If I can’t cross clean, we take the line.”
She considers this. Nods. “Okay. But if you start to go under, I’m coming in to stabilize you.”
“Don’t. Use the line.”
“I’m coming in after you,” she repeats. Not negotiable.
Pressure builds under my ribs at that certainty. She would risk herself for me. I don’t know what to do with that.
Mac blows the whistle. First team enters the water—Aiden and Jacks. They move carefully, using the safety line. Smart but slow.
Our turn comes. I step into the river.
The cold hits like a physical blow. Every nerve ending screaming. My breath catches involuntarily. In Rome, cold water was punishment. Dungeon cells flooded deliberately, standing in freezing water for hours. The memory tries to surface—I push it down.
This is Scotland. Not Rome. Challenge, not punishment.
I move forward. The current is stronger than it looked from shore. Pulls at my legs, trying to sweep my feet out from under me. I brace against larger rocks, test each step before committing weight.
Halfway across, the water is waist-deep. Numbingly cold. My legs are already losing sensation.
I glance back. Reid is following my exact path, moving confidently. Her face is set, determined, but I can see she’s feeling the cold too.
Three-quarters across, my foot encounters slippery algae on a rock. I catch myself, adjust. “Reid! Rock ahead, ten o’clock—algae!”
She adjusts her path, avoids that rock. But two steps later, different rock, same problem. Her foot slips. She goes down to one knee, water up to her shoulders.
She gasps—I hear it from here—I turn ready to help, but she recovers, pushes herself up, keeps moving. “I’m good. Don’t stop.”
I’m already on the bank. The medic hands me a silver thermal blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders but immediately grab a second one, moving to the water’s edge.
Reid reaches the bank. The moment her foot touches dry land, I’m there, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, pulling it tight, tucking the edges to trap her body heat. My hands linger a half second longer than necessary. I tell myself it’s to make sure the seal holds.
“Thanks,” she manages through chattering teeth.
Mac checks us in. “Sulla and Reid. Twelve minutes, thirty seconds. Third place. Good work. Medical tent for warming protocol when you’re ready.”
We stand here shivering in our silver blankets. I can see the warming tent which is equipped with portable heaters, dry clothes, and hot drinks. But there’s a line. Three teams ahead of us, medics working to stabilize someone who went fully under.
A medic approaches us. “You two stable enough to walk?”
“Yes,” Reid says.
“Good. Tent’s full—TV crew is insisting on filming the severe hypothermia case.” She rolls her eyes slightly. “Head to your sleeping quarters, get into dry clothes, share body heat. Standard warming protocol. I’ll check on you in thirty.”
Reid and I exchange a glance. We both caught that—TV crew insisting. Made for television drama.
“Of course they are,” Reid mutters.
We walk quickly back to tent four. Both of us shivering violently now despite the blankets. The wet clothes underneath are making it worse—wind chill pulling heat away from our bodies.
Inside the tent, I start stripping off wet gear immediately. Turn away to give her privacy. Hear her doing the same behind me.
Dry clothes on. Still shivering. The tent is not warm enough to stop this.
“We need to share heat,” Reid says. Her voice is tight, controlled, but I can hear the shivering affecting her speech. “Medical protocol.”
“Agreed.”
I sit on my cot. Reid sits beside me, both of us still wrapped in the silver blankets.
“This isn’t going to work sitting up,” she says. “We need to lie down. Maximum surface area contact.”
“Agreed.”
We both know what this means. Close contact. But we’re not discussing it. Just a necessity.
I lie down first. Reid hesitates for just a moment, then lies down in front of me. Her back to my chest. Spooning.
It’s the only position that makes sense. Most effective heat transfer. Practical.
I pull the blankets over both of us, creating a cocoon of trapped warmth.
At first, there’s distance. A few inches of cold air between her back and my chest.
“You need to actually make contact,” Reid says. “Or this won’t work.”
She’s right.
I shift closer. Press my chest against her back. Wrap my arm over her waist to pull her fully against me.
Her body is cold through the dry clothes. But I can feel my warmth starting to transfer. Can feel hers doing the same.
“Just for warmth,” she says quietly.
“Just for warmth,” I agree.
The shivering starts to slow. Minutes pass. Our bodies warm each other gradually.
This is practical. Medical. Necessary.
So why does every point of contact feel electric?
Her breathing deepens. She’s falling asleep. The warmth, the exhaustion from the challenge, the comfort of another body—it’s pulling her under.
She shifts slightly in sleep, pressing back against me. Unconscious movement, seeking warmth.
And my body responds.
I can’t stop it. Can’t control it. Blood rushing where it shouldn’t. Hardening against her.
Merda.
I try to create distance. Shift my hips back slightly.
She makes a small sound of protest in her sleep. Follows me. Presses back against me, chasing the warmth.
Now she’ll definitely feel it. No way she can’t.
I freeze. Wait for her to pull away. Wait for the awkwardness.
But she’s asleep. Deeply asleep. Either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I force myself to breathe. To stay still. To not think about how good she feels pressed against me. How perfectly her body fits. How much I want to—
No.
This is medical necessity. She’s asleep. I’m not some animal who can’t control himself. I have been worse things. I will not be that here.
I close my eyes. Focus on breathing. On the warmth. On anything except the fact that I’m hard and pressed against Reid and she’s asleep and trusting and this is the most intimate I’ve been with anyone in decades.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift off.
When I wake, it’s darker. Hours have passed. The shivering is completely gone—we’re warm now, too warm under the blankets.
Reid is still asleep. Still pressed against me. My arm still around her waist. Her hand has moved during sleep, now covering mine where it rests on her stomach.
I should move. Should wake her. Should create distance.
But she’s so peaceful. Breathing even and deep. Relaxed in a way I’ve never seen her. Like she’s set something down.
And I… I don’t want to let go yet.
So I lie there. Holding her. Warm and comfortable and more at peace than I’ve been in longer than I can remember.
This is dangerous. I’m starting to care more than I should. Starting to want things I have no right to want. Starting to imagine what it might be like if this were real instead of just medical necessity.
But right now, in this tent, with her warm body against mine and her breathing slow in sleep, I let myself have this.
Just this.
Reid stirs. Her hand tightens over mine briefly before awareness hits. She realizes where she is. How we’re positioned.
She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just lies there, processing.
“How long?” she asks quietly.
“A few hours.”
“We warmed up.”
“Yes.”
“This was just medical necessity,” she insists.
“Yes.”
She’s quiet, then, “Were you… did you fall asleep too?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “We should get up.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves. The silence has weight. The kind that means something is being decided.
Finally, she shifts. Starts to pull away. I release her immediately, let her go.
The cold air rushes in where her body was. I miss the warmth immediately.
We sit up. Both pretending that didn’t affect us.
“I should check in with medical,” Reid says. Not looking at me. “Make sure we’re cleared.”
“I’ll come with you.”
We leave the tent together. Both of us carrying the weight of what just happened. Both of us pretending it meant nothing.
But I can still feel the way her body fit against mine.