Still, questions multiplied in my mind like storm clouds. Xabat had mentioned being a sailor, but the way he'd moved through that beach house, the precision of his tactics, spoke of specialized training. Could he be Navy? Special Operations, perhaps? SEALs operated out of the area. Or maybe something else entirely, something I didn't have the clearance or knowledge to even guess at.
I shifted against the wall, the rough texture of painted cinderblock catching on the fleece of my hoodie. "Did you recognize anything about the guys that broke into the beach house?" I asked, my fingers working at the plastic cap of a water bottle until it cracked open with a satisfying pop. I brought it to my lips and took a long sip, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat, before lowering it to rest against my knee. "They had tactical gear—the whole setup—but nothing that marked them as police or military. No badges, no insignia, no identifying patches."
"Mercenaries," Xabat said softly. He glanced up from his perusal of the beef jerky offerings, his dark eyes meeting mine for a flash. His thick fingers turned over the package, examining it with the same careful attention he seemed to give everything. "Can you think of any reason someone would want to abduct or hurt you?"
A laugh bubbled up from my chest before I could stop it, sharp and slightly hysterical. "Nothing. Like I said, I'm a second-grade teacher." I spread my hands wide, gesturing at myself in my ridiculous pink sweats as if to emphasize the absurdity."Everything is great at the school—no problems with the kids, parents, or co-workers." Granted, little Becky Jessup's parents aggravated the shit out of me with their constant emails about my perceived inability to recognize their daughter's genius, but I didn't think they'd hire a hit squad over it.
"Maybe it's got something to do with Seth," I said slowly, the thought forming as I spoke it aloud. My fingers found the water bottle again, twisting it back and forth as I watched the liquid slosh inside. "My husband was a cop, and he had... enemies." The word felt heavy on my tongue, weighted with grief.
"How do you mean?" Xabat asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the space between us. He grabbed his own bottle of water, throat working as he drank. He killed half the bottle in what seemed like one continuous swallow before lowering it with a satisfied exhale.
I drew in a breath, steadying myself against the familiar ache that always accompanied telling the story. "Seth was doing a routine welfare check with a social worker when he discovered a group of children being trafficked." The words came out flat, clinical. I'd told this story enough times to investigators, reporters, and well-meaning friends that I'd learned to strip the emotion from it. I had to in order to keep myself sane. "The gang doing the trafficking showed up while he was there. There was a shootout." I paused, my thumb rubbing circles against the condensation on my water bottle. "He saved the social worker and the kids... held off the gang members until backup arrived, but Seth was killed in the process."
I hesitated, surprised to find that talking about Seth didn't send the usual knife-twist of pain through my chest. For years, sometimes just saying his name aloud felt like swallowing glass. But here, in this boarded up souvenir shop with a stranger who'd just saved my life, the grief sat differently. Quieter. Likeit had had finally settled into something I could carry instead of something that crushed me.
My fingers tightened around the water bottle, the plastic crinkling under the pressure. "A couple of the gang members got killed. The rest, maybe a dozen or so, went to prison." I cast him a sharp, searching look, my eyes narrowing as I studied his face for any flicker of reaction. "It's been over three years since it happened. Do you think the men who came after me tonight are connected to it? That they'd wait this long for revenge?"
Xabat's broad shoulders lifted in a slow, rolling shrug. The movement pulled the navy fabric even tighter across his chest, the stretched cotton outlining every ridge and plane of muscle beneath. The casual gesture shouldn't have been distracting, but something about the way the too-small shirt strained against his frame made my pulse quicken.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Xytol only said you were in danger, but he did not say from whom." He selected a beef jerky stick from the pile, tore open the plastic wrapper, and took an experimental bite. His jaw worked as he chewed, his expression shifting into a slight frown. Then, apparently deciding it was acceptable, he tilted his head back and consumed the rest in two massive bites.
"How would Xytol know I was in danger?" I asked. "I thought he worked for one of those companies that did AI boyfriends." And how much had I embarrassed myself with that question?
Xabat's mouth twitched—was that amusement? A hint of a smile that vanished almost before it appeared.
"I think the company Xytol worked for did more thanAI boyfriends," he said the word like it was difficult to keep from laughing. "I do not know exactly because I have not spoken to him in such a long while, but I believe his work was far more complex than artificial companionship." He leaned forwardslightly, his massive frame shifting, creating a sense of intimacy. "Whatever he was privy to worried him greatly. All he wanted was to make sure you were safe."
The words settled over me like a weighted blanket—comforting and suffocating all at once. Someone I'd never met in person, someone who existed only as a voice through my phone, had cared enough about my safety to send help. To send Xabat. The thought should have been reassuring, but instead it twisted something uncomfortable in my chest.
"That's...." I trailed off, not sure how to finish. Touching? Terrifying? Both seemed inadequate. My fingers found a loose thread on the hem of my ridiculous pink hoodie and worried at it, pulling until it came free. "How does someone know that? How does anyone know mercenaries are coming for a second-grade teacher in the middle of a hurricane?"
The question hung between us. I thought about those conversations with Xytol—the easy rapport, his questions about my day, my life. The friendship we'd built through our shared grief. Had he been gathering information? Assessing threat levels? The idea that our casual chats had been something more calculated made me feel exposed, like I'd been walking around naked without realizing it.
But then again, he'd been right. And he sent Xabat.
I looked at the man beside me. The stranger who'd broken down my door, pulled me through a hurricane, and was now sitting cross-legged on a souvenir shop floor eating beef jerky like this was all perfectly normal. My life had been so carefully controlled since Seth died. Routine. Predictable. Safe. And in the span of a few hours, it had all shattered into something I couldn't begin to understand.
"I'm scared," I whispered, the admission not only to Xabat, but to myself.
"I know." His voice was firm but gentle. "But whatever comes, I will protect you."
His large hand, still smelling faintly of beef jerky, reached out and covered mine. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his strength. I didn't pull away. Instead, I found myself turning my palm upward, accepting the contact, drawing comfort from this handsome stranger who had, inexplicably, become my lifeline.
The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Outside, the hurricane continued its relentless assault, wind and rain creating a chaotic backdrop. But here, in our small sanctuary behind the postcard rack, something fragile and tentative was forming—a connection born of survival, of shared danger.
I didn't know what would happen next. I didn't know who was hunting me or why. But for the first time since Seth died, I felt something beyond fear and loss. Something that felt almost like hope.
Chapter 7
Xabat
I was impressed. This female had been married to a warrior.
The attraction I felt toward her was overwhelming. A primal pull that seemed to originate from somewhere deep in my core. My neck tingled like crazy, the sensation almost unbearable. A persistent electrical current ran up and down my spine, making every nerve ending hyperaware of her proximity. The tingling intensified whenever she moved, whenever her scent drifted toward me. But I couldn't give in. It was my duty to protect my brother's mate. To claim her for myself would be unforgivable. I refused to take advantage of the circumstances simply to assuage my desire, no matter how fiercely the biological imperative clawed at my restraint, demanding I act on instincts I had no right to follow.
Harper sat cross-legged on the floor, her pink sweatpants bunched slightly at the ankles, the soft fabric clinging to her curves in a way that made my jaw tighten. The matching pink top had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone. It was such a simple thing. Human clothing meant for comfort and nothing more. Yet the sight of her in those ridiculous garments made something possessive rise up in my chest. She looked soft. Vulnerable.Mine.
The color suited her somehow—warm and alive against her skin. It made her seem even more fragile, more in need ofprotection. My protection. The thought was dangerous, and I shoved it down. She was Xytol's. Not mine. Never mine.
