They descended the mountain path in silence. Vikram leaned heavily on Asha’s shoulder, blood soaking through the makeshift bandages on his shoulder and chest. Every step pulled fresh pain from his wounds, but he didn’t complain. She walked naked beside him — the palm-frond skirt long discarded, torn away by thorns and wind. Rain had stopped at last; only mist clung to the air, cool and damp against her bruised skin. Her boobs swayed gently with each careful step, nipples still dark and swollen, marked by bites, pinches, and the endless scrape of rough surfaces. Between her thighs, everything felt raw — pussy tender and slick with leftover cum and her own wetness, ass aching from the cliff’s edge fuck, faint traces of pee and river water still drying on her inner legs.

The path narrowed until it became little more than a ledge carved into the rock face. Below them the valley dropped away again — deeper here, darker, swallowed by thick fog that hid whatever waited at the bottom. No birds called. No insects hummed. Just the soft crunch of their feet and Vikram’s labored breathing.