And now he wants to make small talk?
I bury my face in my hands for a second, sucking in a long, frigid breath.
They had found me through one of those damn Omega-Match programs my parents forced me into.This is how the world works, Anita. You want to be safe? You need to fit in.
All my life, that’s what I’ve heard.
Fit in. Fall in line. Be good. Be wanted. But what if you’re not meant to fit? What if you’re not broken, but the mold is?
That pack wasn’t my forever. It was never even mine to begin with. Yet, I let them own pieces of me they never earned.
A gust of wind whips across the deck, catching strands of my hair.
I glance back over my shoulder, and my stomach sinks. Leon is following me outside on the deck. “Anita, wait. Just hear me out…”
“No.” I don’t even face him fully. “You’re in my past, and I don’t care what you have to say.”
I speed up, scanning the deck for an exit, anywhere to escape this conversation. The cold is brutal out here, wind cutting through my coat like it’s made of paper, but I don’t care.
Laughter—low, masculine, confident—comes from the far corner of the deck. Three men standing near the railing at the rear of the ferry, half distracted by whatever’s happening with the engine below. One of them is an older man and has his coat sleeves pushed up despite the cold, a wrench in one hand, grease smeared on his forearm. Another, in the captain’s uniform, might be as old as my father. And a tall, dark-haired man in a long coat has his back to me. They’re not Leon, and right now, that’s all I care about.
Without thinking, I head straight for them.
“Hey, can you believe this?” I say with a fake laugh, loud and casual, slipping right into the space beside the man closest to me. I don’t look at any of them directly. Just keep my focus behind me, on Leon, who’s slowing his approach, uncertainty written all over his face.
“Unbelievable,” I add, laughter bubbling in my throat like I’m part of their group, like we’ve been standing here together the whole time. I don’t know what the hell I’m pretending to talk about. Engine trouble? Weather? The general cycle of existence? It doesn’t matter.
Leon stops a few feet away, watching, clearly unsure how to proceed. I lift my brows at him, giving him a look that screams,Move along.
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw tight, and finally turns back toward the cabin doors. I wait until he disappears inside before allowing my shoulders to drop, tension draining out of me.
Crisis averted.
“That was smooth.” The male’s voice comes from my right, and everything inside me stops.
Because I know that voice. Rough. Deep. Sin dipped in gravel. That slow, masculine drawl that’s narrated every dark, depraved, toe-curling fantasy I’ve indulged in for the last year. The voice that’s lived in my earbuds, in my most private moments, in the space between waking and sleeping.
Joe Hamilton.
It can’t be. That’s ridiculous. What are the odds?
But what if…
I turn slowly, and my breath catches.
He towers over me, and he’s unfairly attractive. Like, aggressively, offensively attractive in a way that feels almost rude. Early thirties, maybe, with a strong jaw covered in dark stubble that’s somewhere between intentional and forgot-to-shave-for-three-days. His eyes are steel gray, sharp, assessing, intelligent, and they’re studying me with an expression that’s half curiosity, half amusement.
His black hair is slightly messy, sticking out from the upturned collar of his coat. It hangs open at the front, giving mea perfect view of a fitted black shirt that stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, not hiding any of his muscles.
He’s easily over six feet, and ridiculously handsome.
Heat floods my cheeks. My thighs clench involuntarily. I’m practically buzzing, my body already ahead of my brain, slick heat pooling low and urgent. My pulse is thudding wildly.
This could actually be him.
The two men he’d been talking to are glancing over the railing toward the back of the ferry, murmuring something about the smoke rising from below, ignoring me. One of them points down, clearly involved in trying to fix whatever’s gone wrong.
Joe, or whatever his real name is, doesn’t look away from me. He tilts his head slightly, expression curious, assessing. “You okay?”
