I squint. It’s her. She’s farther out than before, and there’s a current running parallel to the shore. I push myself up, ignoring the sand stuck to my jeans, and walk down to the water’s edge.
A group of teenagers shriek past me, pelting each other with fistfuls of sand, and block my view for half a second. When they clear, she’s gone. Panic isn’t supposed to be a thing for alphas; it’s a liability. But my feet are already moving.
I jog along the shore, scanning the waves. I spot her—no, just an empty patch of foam. Then I see a hand, pale as moonlight, slicing up from the surface.
There’s a shout, and I realize it’s her voice.
She’s not joking.
She’s in trouble.
CHAPTER 6
Lucas
The seaon an early June afternoon is a living thing. The wind is full of salt and grit, and the shouts from the volleyball court carry all the way to my lifeguarding tower, where the world divides into binary: those who know what they’re doing in the water and those who don’t. Most of the time, that’s all that matters.
Today, from the moment I open the rescue box and lay out fresh towels, there’s something more. A scent, faint as it drifts, but it’s there, skimming over the usual mix of tanning lotion and salt. Sweet and wild and—honey, maybe. Not the bottled supermarket kind, but wildflower stuff. Sticky in the throat.
It’s all I can think about. Every cell strains toward it.
I look for the source. It’s nobody from the usual surf crowd. None of the swim team.
A half hour later, she walks onto the sand from the east end, at the head of the ramp, dark hair caught up in one of those buns that looks accidental, but you know it’s not. She stands at the edge of the water, toes flexing in the foam, arms folded across her chest like she’s bracing herself for impact.
Behind her walks a man, taller than her by a head and built like an athlete. He keeps two steps behind, casual but toocareful. At first, I think bodyguard, but the way he watches her says something else: he’s not being paid, he’sinvested.
There’s no reason for my pulse to spike, but it does. The honey scent surges stronger as she kneels, fingers sinking into the damp sand. When the wind shifts, it’s all I can do to keep my head.
I see a dozen near-misses a week—floaties lost to the undertow, little kids tumbling in the shallows. Even the occasional old guy with something to prove. You learn not to overreact. But when the woman finally steps into the water, she doesn’t wade. She walks until it lifts her, then dives headlong into the break, straight into the foam and suck of a riptide that’s been churning since yesterday’s storm. You only do that if you either know exactly what you’re doing, or you have zero idea what’s about to hit.
I watch her slice through the first set, neat as a torpedo, but the current catches her. Then—there, just beyond the sandbar. She hesitates, half-turns, and in that second, a rip opens up, drawing her parallel to the shore. She fights the pull, tries to angle back, but she’s got no leverage. The guy on the sand sees it too late. By the time he starts yelling, she’s fifty meters offshore and getting dragged further every second.
I slam my whistle and hit the sand running. The rescue board is right where it should be. My bare feet barely register the heat of the planks as I sprint down the ramp and into the warm shallows. Once through them, I fling the board ahead and launch after it, belly down, arms churning. Years of training take over. Momentary panic turns into single-minded action.
The honey-sweet compulsion is now something far more practical when mixed with adrenaline.
I must reach her. Imustsave her.
She’s visible in the troughs, arms a little frantic now and her hair black as ink against the froth. I cut toward her with my legs driving the board, adrenaline spiking hard enough to hurt.
“Hold on!” I shout over the wind.
She doesn’t answer, just kicks in place. Her lips are blue. The current fights me for every meter, but I’m used to it. I’ve done this drill in surf a lot meaner than this. Two more strokes and I’m close enough to throw her the line.
“Grab!” I bark.
She lunges, misses, and goes under. I follow, diving off the board. Cold water shocks every nerve. For a split second, there’s nothing but the roar of bubbles and the honey-wild scent so thick, it’s almost taste. Then her hand finds mine. She’s smaller up close. Small enough that I want to hold her to my body and never let go so long as danger lingers nearby.
I’m aware that sounds insane. That we’ve only just met.
There the urge stays.
She coughs, sputtering. I haul her up to the board, rolling her belly-down and letting her cling to the rails.
“Don’t let go. I’ve got you.”
She laughs, but it’s not deep-bellied. It’s a laugh of terror. Her hair is plastered to her face, and her shoulders shake as she tries to breathe.
