She was Xytol's mate. My brother had seen her first, had claimed her. And I would honor that, no matter what my biology tried to tell me. The tingling, the pull, the way every cell in my body seemed attuned to her was irrelevant. I wouldn't allow it to cloud my judgment or compromise my mission.
If he lived, my brother deserved happiness. If not, he deserved the honor of having his mate protected. And Harper deserved protection, respect, and the freedom to choose without interference from a male who couldn't control his own baser instincts.
I would get her to safety. And I would walk away.
That was the only acceptable outcome.
Chapter 6
Harper
I was a cop's wife—perpetrating any sort of crime was bound to make me feel like shit. But like my earlier lapse of manners, I shoved the moral implications of breaking and entering into a mental box labeledsurvival, justifying it due to the hurricane and armed men after me. Necessity, I told myself. Pure necessity. Though the rationalization felt as flimsy as the shop's rattling windows.
The truth was, I was still shaking. Not from the cold, but from the memory of those men skulking through my door. The way Xabat had moved, putting himself between me and danger without hesitation. I knew violence. Seth often came home with stories that kept me up at night, but I'd never been the target. Never felt the terror of being hunted.
And then our escape. Running through the storm with wind that tried to rip us off our feet, rain that felt like needles against my exposed skin, debris flying past us like bullets shot in the dark. I'd lost track of how many times Xabat had grabbed my arm to steady me or shield me with his body when something large went tumbling past.
Now, standing in the relative quiet of the souvenir shop with just the wind howling outside and the building creaking around us, the shock was starting to wear off. And underneath it was something I didn't want to examine too closely. Gratitude, yes, but also a growing awareness of the man who'd saved me. Astranger, really. A stranger I was now trapped with, soaking wet and scared, while armed men searched for me in the storm. A stranger that, for some odd, inexplicable reason, I trusted.
The shop was the kind you'd find in every beach town—weathered wooden floors dusted with sand, walls crammed with rotating racks of postcards and sun-faded t-shirts proclaiming, "Life's a Beach." Shelves sagged under the weight of seashells, wind chimes, snow globes with miniature lighthouses inside, and novelty bottle openers shaped like flip-flops. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and the synthetic vanilla of cheap candles. In the back corner, a display of beach towels competed for space with bins of plastic sand toys, while the front counter was cluttered with impulse buys—saltwater taffy, key chains, and those mood rings that never actually worked.
The place was bigger than most, though. The snack aisle stretched a good fifteen feet, stocked with everything from beef jerky to peanut butter crackers, bags of chips in every flavor imaginable, candy bars, cookies, and a few boxes of granola bars that looked like they'd been there since last season. The clothing section took up nearly a quarter of the store. Racks of hoodies and sweatpants hung beside the usual tank tops and board shorts, probably for tourists who underestimated how cold the ocean breeze could get at night.
We could hole up here for days if we needed to. As long as we didn't mind living on Doritos and Gatorade. The idea reminded me of one of my favorite movies,Where the Heart Is, in which the pregnant heroine, Novalee Nation, managed to survive quite nicely living in a Walmart.
I moved away from the doorway, my sneakers squelching against the floorboards as I grabbed a handful of beach towels from the display. The terry cloth felt rough under my pruned fingertips, but they were blessedly dry. Xabat followed, his heavy footsteps creating small puddles with each stride. We settled inan open spot near the inner wall, tucked behind a rotating rack of postcards and out of sight of the doors and windows.
I was stunned when he dropped my backpack at my feet with a wet thud. Water dripped from the canvas, forming a small pool on the sandy floor. I hadn't even realized he'd grabbed it.
"Thank you," I breathed, my voice barely audible over the wind outside. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the grit that pressed into my skin through my soaked jeans, and unzipped the main compartment. Inside, miraculously, everything was still there... and dry. The water bottles he'd taken from the fridge, my wallet, car keys with the little lighthouse keychain Seth had given me, and my cell phone, the screen dark and streaked with moisture. I laid my thumb on the screen and watched the display flicker to life—no service. Not surprising with the storm. I held down the power button until the screen went black again, preserving what battery life remained. My hands shook as I zipped the backpack closed. The adrenaline from our escape was wearing off, leaving behind raw nerves and bone-deep exhaustion that made my limbs feel like lead.
"You should get out of those wet clothes," Xabat suggested, his voice a low rumble. I felt a gentle tug against my scalp and realized he held a strand of my wet hair between his fingers. His touch was surprisingly careful for hands so large.
"You too," I said, clamoring to my feet and brushing wet sand from my knees. My clothes clung to me like a second skin, cold and clammy, making me shiver. While the store still held the lingering warmth of daylight, the temperature would fall with the storm—it always did.
I moved to the clothing racks, flipping through hangers with damp fingers. Most of it was the usual tourist fare, but I found a set of pink sweats. The pants had "Life's a Beach" written across the ass in glittery silver letters, while the matching hoodiefeatured a cartoon palm tree on the front. They were ridiculous. They were also dry and fleece-lined.
"Jackpot," I muttered, pulling them off the rack. I grabbed a tank top from a nearby display and a pair of socks featuring little surfboards. Fashion be damned—I'd take warm and tacky over cold and stylish any day.
I changed in a cramped dressing room tucked in the back corner, the mirror inside spotted with age and salt air. Peeling the soaked denim down my legs felt like shedding a second skin—the fabric clung stubbornly to my thighs and calves, heavy with water. My sweater came off with a wet sucking sound, and I had to wrestle my arms free from the sleeves. The drenched bra and panties followed, leaving me shivering and covered in goosebumps. I draped everything over the wooden rack mounted to the wall, watching water drip steadily onto the floor, forming dark puddles that seeped between the weathered boards.
The dry clothes felt like heaven against my skin. The fleece lining of the pink sweatpants was so soft and warm that I didn't even mind the ridiculous glittery letters across my backside. The hoodie enveloped me whole, its sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it was blissfully dry and smelled faintly of the shop's coconut scent. I used a towel to dry my hair, frowning at the waves that sprang to life without the aid of a brush and blow dryer to tame them.
While Xabat rummaged through the racks trying to find something—anything—that would accommodate his massive frame, I set about gathering supplies. I collected an armful of beach towels and piled them near our chosen spot. Then I hit the snack aisle, loading up on bags of chips, cookies, beef jerky, and anything else that looked remotely filling. I grabbed several bottles of water and a few Gatorades, cradling them against my chest as I made multiple trips back to our makeshift camp. Onmy final pass, I spotted two oversized pool floats—bright tropical prints featuring flamingos and palm trees—still in their plastic packaging. They weren't proper mattresses, but if we could blow them up, they'd be better than sleeping on the hard, sandy floor.
When I returned, I found Xabat had settled on a pair of gray sweatpants that hit him mid-calf, exposing his thick ankles and the corded muscles of his lower legs. The waistband sat low on his hips, probably because they weren't designed for someone built like a brick shithouse. His t-shirt—navy blue with "Wrightsville Beach" emblazoned across the chest in faded yellow letters—stretched across his shoulders and chest like a second skin. Every time he moved, the fabric pulled taut, outlining the ridges of muscle underneath.
He looked like a bodybuilder who'd raided a teenager's closet. Which caused a strange fluttering low in my belly.
We settled together, our backs against an inner column, surrounded by our gathered supplies. The sound of the hurricane outside created a muffled backdrop of wind and rain. I'd managed to find a couple of candles that smelled of coconut and sandalwood, along with a lighter beckoning one to'Visit Wilmington Beach'. The candles provided no real light, but it still felt cozy.
I suspected the temperature had dropped outside, but I didn’t feel it. Xabat's body radiated heat. His massive frame was both protective and slightly intimidating as he sifted through the bags of chips, as if he'd never seen one before.
"The way you handled those men was impressive," I said, voicing the thoughts that had been in my mind since we escaped the beach house. "You were a soldier once, weren't you?" His skill had been too honed, too lethal not to have had some formal training.
"Something like that," he muttered, opening a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips and giving a sniff.
His lack of elaboration grated on my nerves. Yet my years with Seth had taught me that the world of military and law enforcement was riddled with classified operations, NDAs, and assignments that couldn't be discussed even with spouses. I'd learned to recognize that particular brand of silence—the kind that came from legal obligation rather than evasiveness.
