Jax nods toward the front window. “We’ll move the meeting to a more controlled location if needed. But for now, stay inside.”
I set the pen down and turn to face him fully, hands on my hips. “You know, you’re very good at issuing commands. I handled myself last night when those men came to the exhibit. I don’t need to be locked away like some damsel in a tower.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “You’re my mission now, Isabella. That means I decide what keeps you safe. Last night proved they’re willing to shoot and threaten you. I won’t take chances with your life.”
The way he says my name sends an unexpected shiver through me. Heat blooms where his gaze lingers on my bandaged arm. I resist the urge to touch the gauze.
Before I can respond, the low sound of a radio broadcast drifts from the kitchen. I walk over and turn up the volume. The announcer’s voice fills the cottage, calm but urgent.
“…hurricane warnings have been upgraded for the South Carolina coast. Tropical Storm Elena is gaining strength faster than expected and is now projected to make landfall as a Category 2 hurricane within the next forty-eight hours. Residents in low-lying areas and barrier islands are advised to begin voluntary evacuations…”
I exhale slowly, staring at the radio. The timing could not be worse. The preview nightmare, my centerpiece painting stolen, and now a hurricane bearing down on us. My mind races through the implications for the remaining collection, the pier damage, and the safety of the artists who live along the marsh.
Jax moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the solid warmth of his body. “This changes things,” he says quietly. “Storms like this create chaos. Perfect cover for anyone looking to finish what they started last night.”
I turn to look up at him, our faces only inches apart. “Then we adapt. I still have responsibilities here. The collection needs proper documentation for the insurance claim, and several artists are counting on me. I won’t run at the first sign of wind. I have a place to keep the art away from harm. We can start moving it after the meeting with the insurance guy. Then we can board up the windows here and ride it out.”
His eyes darken with intensity. “You won’t be running, but you will listen when I say it’s time to move.”
The tension between us pulls taut again. I can see the conflict in his gaze, the professional protector clashing with something deeper, more personal. My pulse quickens, and I wonder if he feels it too, this strange pull that started the moment he walked through my door last night.
A sudden noise outside breaks the moment. The low rumble of an engine grows louder down Marshview Lane. Jax instantly shifts, placing his body between me and the front window. He peers through the curtain with sharp focus.
“Black van,” he mutters. “Tinted windows. Slowing down as it approaches the cottage.”
My stomach tightens. I step closer despite myself. The van creeps past the house at a deliberate pace, the driver hidden behind dark glass. It continues to the end of the lane, then turns around slowly and drives past again, lingering longer this time.
Jax’s hand moves to the holster at his hip. “Stay here.”
He slips out the front door before I can protest, moving with the silent efficiency of someone trained for exactly this kind of threat. I watch from the window as he steps into the yard, his posture alert and commanding. The van accelerates suddenlyand disappears around the corner. Jax stands there for several long seconds, scanning the street in both directions before returning inside.
“They’re checking things out,” he says, locking the door behind him. “Seeing if you’re alone. Seeing how fast someone responds.”
He crosses the room to where I stand and gently takes my arm with the bandage. His touch is surprisingly careful, calloused fingers brushing just above the gauze. He checks the wrapping with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with his stoic exterior. The contact sends a rush of heat straight through me, warm and electric, pooling low in my belly. I suck in a soft breath, and his eyes lift to meet mine.
The air crackles. For one suspended moment, neither of us moves. His thumb brushes lightly over the edge of the bandage, and I feel that simple touch everywhere.
He says, voice rough and low. “You’re my responsibility. I protect what’s mine to guard.”
I swallow, trying to steady my voice even as my skin tingles where he touched me. “And I protect what matters to me, Reaper. The collection. The artists. This town. We do this together, or not at all.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, the storm in his eyes raging with unspoken words. Then he releases my arm slowly, the loss of contact leaving me strangely bereft.
The radio continues its steady stream of hurricane updates in the background, warning of rising winds and possible storm surge. Outside, the marsh grass begins to sway more vigorously as the breeze picks up. Inside my quiet cottage, the real storm feels like it is brewing right here between us.
I pick up my clipboard again. Jax returns to his watchful position near the window, but the space between us no longer feels quite so professional.
And as the first distant rumble of thunder rolls across the Lowcountry sky, I realize the coming hurricane might be the least dangerous thing threatening my carefully ordered world today.
Chapter Four - Reaper
The wind is already picking up by late afternoon, rattling the trees outside Isabella’s cottage. I stand by the front window, arms crossed, watching the sky turn the color of steel. The radio in the kitchen drones on about Tropical Storm Elena, now officially upgraded to Hurricane Sam and barreling toward the South Carolina coast. Evacuation warnings are no longer suggestions. They are reality.
Isabella moves through the parlor like she can’t sit still. Her dark hair keeps falling across her cheek, and she tucks it back with an impatient swipe. She never stops moving. I’ve started calling her Bee in my head. The nickname fits. She buzzes from one task to the next, refusing to slow down even when the world tries to knock her flat.
“Bee,” I say, voice low and firm. “We need to talk.”
She pauses mid-reach for another folder and turns those hazel eyes on me. The gold flecks catch the fading light. “You’ve beencalling me that for the last hour. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.”
