I grin despite myself. “That’s absolutely staying here.”
As I run up the stairs to start packing, I realize my hands are shaking—not with dread, but with the kind of anticipation that borders on terror.
The future is finally mine to choose.
CHAPTER 4
Helena
Seamuse Village isa slip of land at the edge of blue, poised between the cold English Channel and the kind of wild hills that could swallow a careless soul. It’s the kind of place people come to when their lives need pressing between the pages of a storybook, or so the travel blogs say, but even stepping out of the car, I can tell most of the tourists are only passing through.
I breathe in the salt and the promise of freedom. And the clean, mineral tang of flint of Zane Hawke, who stands solid at my elbow, our bags already gathered.
“Your father’s assistant said the rental is up here.” Zane gestures toward the slope, his voice pitched for my ears alone. I think he’s afraid every shopfront window and idle stranger might be listening. His hand hovers at the small of my back, not quite touching. I refuse to let myself lean into it.
But I want to.
The intensity of that want now that Zane and I are free of the scrutinizing eyes of everyone at my family’s manor is so strong, it does far more than take me by surprise.
It seizes me wholly. Especially since I’m notusedto scenting Zane.
That realization hits harder than his scent did.
Zane was on suppressants. I’ve known this since the first time I realized he was an alpha. I’ve scented him once more. Knew we were scent-matches, which has been a hell to ignore.
But now we’re both off those suppressants.
And alone in Cornwall.
I swallow hard and force my gaze elsewhere on the street.
The street is made of cobbles and beach grass, a ribbon of shops and summer bunting strung overhead, each flag faded to pastel by a hundred seasons. There are bakeries with bread displayed in lopsided pyramids, and a newsagent store with postcards out front.
I steal a glance at Zane, half-expecting him to be bored or irritable, but he’s scanning the horizon, jaw set, radiating the same quiet vigilance he always does. His black suit is the only one for twenty kilometers, but somehow, it doesn’t look out of place on him, not even with the salt-wind blasting his hair out of place. His gaze catches mine and he quirks an eyebrow. A fraction of a smile graces his lips.
I look away first.
Our flat is a block up from the main drag, set in a row of whitewashed stone houses with blue trim and window boxes spilling nasturtiums. There’s a sign in the entryway—‘Sandpiper Lettings’—and a key left in the lock, just as promised. Zane shoulders the door open, his frame so broad, he almost has to duck. The scent of lemon polish drifts out into the hall.
I let Zane take the lead. It’s his job, after all. The flat is small, just two bedrooms with a kitchen sporting mismatched plates in the open shelving, a living room with a chintz loveseat and a threadbare rug. Sunlight washes every surface through a set of large windows overlooking the sea in the distance. I can’t remember the last time I saw a space so inviting that’s also so definitively not my family’s.
“Which room do you want?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He sets my suitcase in the larger bedroom, the one that faces the water. “This one has the best sight lines. And it locks from the inside. So it’s yours.”
I don’t let myself sigh. “Ever the sentinel. You know, I don’t think anyone’s going to attack or kidnap me here. My father overreacts. I’m notthatimportant, and neither is my family.”
Zane doesn’t answer. He just stands with his hands behind his back, waiting for me to signal that it’s all right for him to leave. Regardless of the scent-match between us, Zane is my bodyguard and he will never stop taking that seriously. I’m only a charge, an obligation.
A puzzle box with a royal crest somewhere on the inside.
Sometimes I really wish we could try to be more.
“Go on,” I say, flicking my fingers at him. “I can unpack myself.”
He hesitates, then nods, closing the door behind him with a click. Only then do I let my shoulders sag. I flop onto the bed, arms outstretched and eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere below, a gull yelps in triumph, probably at another tourist’s expense. My face splits into a grin.
I unpack, hanging my things in the wardrobe and opening the window to let the salty and briny air inside. When I finally go back out, Zane is in the kitchen, knife in one hand while he examines a fruit basket like it were a bomb he’s been asked to disarm.
