“Bee.” His voice drops, firm and commanding. “I’m on the couch. End of discussion. I need to be able to move fast if something happens. Bed puts me in the wrong position.”
I set the bowls down harder than necessary, frustration and something warmer mixing inside me. “You’re impossible. Overprotective to a fault. I’m not some delicate flower that wilts in a storm.”
His eyes darken as he stands, towering over me in the flickering lantern light. “The couch keeps me closer to the door and the windows.”
The argument hangs between us, charged with more than just practicality. The storm roars outside, rain pounding the roof in a steady rhythm that matches the quickening beat of my heart. I open my mouth to push back again when his gaze drops to my bandaged arm.
“Come here,” he says, voice gentler now. “Let me check that graze. The wrapping got wet on the way over. Needs to be changed.”
I hesitate for only a second before stepping closer. He pulls the first aid kit from the supply closet and motions for me to sit on the edge of the couch. The leather dips under my weight. He kneels in front of me, the position bringing us eye to eye in the low light. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he unwrapsthe old bandage, calloused fingers brushing my skin with careful precision. The graze stings slightly as cool air hits it, but his touch sends a completely different kind of heat racing through me.
He cleans the wound with antiseptic wipes, his focus absolute. His eyes stay locked on his work, but I feel the weight of his attention like a physical caress. His fingers linger longer than necessary when he applies fresh gauze, smoothing the tape with slow, deliberate strokes. Warmth spreads from the point of contact, traveling up my arm and pooling low in my belly. My breath catches, and when I look up, his gaze has lifted to meet mine.
The generator continues its steady hum, but the air feels thicker, heavier. His thumb brushes just above the new bandage, a touch so light it could almost be accidental. Except nothing about Jax Harlan feels accidental.
“You’re healing clean,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But you need to keep it dry.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close his mouth is to mine. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers stay on my arm, the heat of his skin searing through the thin sweater. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken tension and the wild roar of the hurricane outside.
My lips part, ready to say something, anything, when his phone vibrates loudly on the table.
He glances at the screen, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t move his hand from my arm right away.
R: Ops update. Power outages are spreading. Police still processing the pier scene, but forensics delayed by the storm. No new sightings of the black van. Stay sharp.
PJ: How’s the babysitting gig going, Reaper? Don’t let the pretty curator distract you from perimeter checks.
Cal: Shut the fuck up. Only use comms when necessary.
Jax silences the phone with a muttered curse, but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. I laugh softly, the sound breaking some of the heavy tension.
“Your team has jokes,” I say, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my arm. “Babysitting gig? Is that what they call protecting me?”
He shakes his head, finally pulling his hand back, though the heat lingers on my skin. “They’re idiots, but they mean well. Rhea runs a tight ship, and Cal doesn’t put up with any bullshit.”
I lean back on the couch, watching him with open curiosity as the lanterns flicker and the storm continues its assault. “They care about you. That much is clear. And they’re obviously enjoying the idea of you playing protector to the ‘pretty curator.’”
His eyes narrow on me, but there is heat in them now, unmistakable. “They don’t know you buzz around like a bee with too much energy and too much courage for your own good.”
The nickname lands warmly again. I smile, unable to help it. “Careful, Reaper. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”
He stands slowly, towering over me once more, the lantern light casting dramatic shadows across his rugged features. The wind howls louder, rain hammering the shutters, but inside the lodge, the real storm feels like the one building between us. Slow, inevitable, and far more dangerous than anything Sam can throw at the coast.
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he grabs a blanket from the supply closet and puts it on the edge of the couch. His eyes keep returning to me, to the bedroom door, to the space we now share in this isolated sanctuary.
I’m not afraid of the storm, the men who might be after me, or a hundred other things. I am afraid that one stormy night may be the beginning of something neither of us may be able to control.
Chapter Six - Reaper
The lodge is wrapped in thick darkness, broken only by the soft, steady glow of the battery lanterns we set up earlier. Their warm light flickers gently across the main room, casting long shadows that dance with every strong gust of wind hammering the walls. The hurricane rages on outside, wind howling through the pinelands and rain lashing the storm shutters in furious sheets. The isolation feels complete now, as if the storm has cut us off from the rest of the world, leaving just Isabella and me with nothing but the lanterns and the growing heat between us.
I stand near one of the shuttered windows, peering through a narrow gap into the blackness beyond. Nothing moves out there except the violent churn of the storm. My focus stays sharp, every muscle coiled tight as I listen to the relentless roar outside and the softer sounds inside the lodge.
Isabella paces slowly across the room, restless energy radiating from her like the wind itself. She’s wearing one of the spare S&S hoodies from the supply closet, the oversized blackgarment swallowing her smaller frame. The hem falls nearly to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up several times at the wrists. What should look messy looks incredibly good on her, the soft fabric draping over her curves and hinting at the feminine shape beneath. Her dark hair falls loose and slightly damp around her shoulders, catching the lantern light in subtle highlights.
She has been moving like this for the last twenty minutes, unable to settle. The lanterns provide just enough light to see the determined set of her jaw and the way her hazel eyes flash when she passes near one of the brighter spots.
