I’m sitting cross-legged in the back of the van with an açaí bowl balanced on one knee as I take a photo of the scene and send it to Chris.
His reply comes while I’m halfway through a spoonful of granola and pineapple.Stunning! Love and miss you. How long are you staying?
How goes Whispering Grove?I reply, ignoring part of his question.
Planning a surprise for Hannah.
I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth and smile, as I adore that he’s found his fated mate.She’s going to love it. Whatever it is. Give everyone my love. Talk later.
He sends back a thumbs-up emoji, which is the most Chris response possible. Then I go back to my bowl. Good honey, fresh fruit, granola with actual crunch instead of that stale, cardboard nonsense cafés try to pass off as texture, on delicious açaí. It makes me disproportionately happy.
I finish the bowl and try not to think about what kind of surprise Chris has planned, whether I should be there for it or not. After about thirty seconds of that, I’m done because it’s mid-morning in Hawaii and the Pacific is right there and it’s calling me.
I grab my board, lock everything up, and head down to the water, wearing just my pink bikini.
I learned to surf in LA through an all-Omega group because most standard surf schools either didn’t take Omegas or the environments got uncomfortable fast. I know what the world thinks about us.Special, they say, which sounds lovely until you understand what they mean, which isvulnerableandtarget. There are men whose rut strips away every reasonable thought and leaves something that will do anything to get to an Omega. The cases on TV. The ones who vanish and turn up months later. Every Omega is aware of those stories. We grow up knowing them the way you know to look both ways when crossing the road.
I don’t walk anywhere after dark without knowing where the exits are.
But I shake all of that off because I’m on a beach in Hawaii, and I refuse to hand Daniel my peace of mind on top of everything else he’s already taken after two months of dating him. Worst mistake of my life.
We met at work, which should have been my first warning, but he was charming, attentive, and knew exactly how to make me feel seen. He remembered little things, like my favorite flowers and meals. Whispered to me promises for the future. Sure, he wasn’t my scent match, but he was an Alpha who wanted me, and at the time, that felt like more than enough. I let myself believe him and that maybe it could become something solid and real. Now I feel stupid for missing all the signs, for not seeing how much he kept tucked away, how often I walked straight past the truth because I liked the version of him he handed me. The worst part is that it still aches. I did fall for him, and having that ripped away left a sore spot in me. I hate him for making me miss the fantasy he offered.
I stroll along the beach, which is mostly empty, shoving those thoughts aside. A few surfers are already in the water, little dots of color against all that blue. I’m heading for the waterline, board under my arm, thinking about nothing but the wave pattern, when the hair on the back of my neck rises.
I twist my head to glance back and spot two men coming down the same path I just walked from the van. Black clothes, and shoes that have absolutely no business being on a beach.
And they’re staring my way.
My chest turns cold. Are they Daniel’s men or just opportunists clocking a single Omega on a quiet beach? Either way, the answer is the same: It’s not fucking great.
I don’t look directly at them or run away. I refuse to give them anything they can read as panic.
I carry my board into the water, the shallows cool against my legs, sand slipping under my feet while tiny silver fish flick away from my ankles. Usually, this is my favorite part. The first touch of the ocean and the quiet before everything else.
Right now, I’m too wound up to enjoy any of it.
I throw myself onto my board, paddle out hard, and try to look like a woman completely in control of her life choices.
Then I glance back. They’re still there on the beach, waiting.
My stomach drops. Shit!
Okay. Think.
Are they actually here for me?
Every panicked nerve ending in my body screams yes, which means Daniel somehow found me. I remember back when we’d been curled up in his huge bed in his house, rain pounding the windows while we embraced. We’d talked about dream places, and I’d said Oahu because Clio lived here.
And now here I am, half a world away, in the ocean, with two men on the shore watching me. Great.
I lift my head and scan the water. Two surfers are farther out, each doing their own thing, already drifting with the swell. Then, off to my right, three men are sitting on their boards beyond the break, loose and steady in the water.
Three is better than one.
I swing my board around and start paddling.
The waves are beginning to muscle up now, not huge, but sharper than before. One lifts under me and I ride the rise, then another comes at me head-on and I duck under, cold salt sliding over my shoulders and scalp. For one clean second, everything goes green and muffled. Then I come back up, shove wet hair out of my face, and keep going.
