SWARM

Dr. June Brennan hunts the queen cicada through the bayou, boots sinking in mud thick as syrup. One wrong step and the virus could rip loose. She carries more than her kit. The restraints bite her wrists raw. The rope pulls taut. Stella keeps hold, her black hair slicked back with sweat, eyes sharp. A beard burn from last night still stings on Brennan’s thigh, reminder that every order now comes laced with lust. They move fast. The southern dark swallows them whole. No backup. No mercy. Just the pair of them—entomologist and former intern—tied together by knots that feel like secrets. The deeper they push, the hotter it gets. Every jolt of the rope says “stay close.” Every slap of rope against skin says “don’t stop.” A single light swings from Brennan’s belt. It shows cicada husks the size of fists, veins still throbbing. Stella leans in, breath hot on Brennan’s neck. “Queen’s next,” she whispers. The words scrape like teeth. They crouch together under rotted cypress knees. Brennan’s pulse hammers between her legs as Stella checks the cinch again, fingers lingering on bound flesh. The bond tightens. Lust crackles like a live wire in the dark. The swamp shifts. Something massive slithers closer. They freeze, skin slick, breaths mingling. A click of mandibles. A low hum. The queen’s coming. And the two of them are bound, exposed, burning with the need to finish this—or each other—before everything else falls apart.