Chapter 100
Kara
I wake to the sound of Cole's heartbeat beneath my ear—steady, reassuring, mine. His arm is draped across my waist, heavy with sleep and possessive even in unconsciousness.
Blake's chest presses against my back, one massive hand splayed over my ribs. Asher's fingers are laced with mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles in small, absent circles that suggest he's been awake for a while.
Through the yacht's porthole, dawn light spills across Lahaina Harbor in shades of rose gold and lavender. Seagulls cry in the distance. The gentle rocking of the boat should be soothing.
Instead, I feel like I'm suffocating.
I carefully extract myself from Cole's heavy arm. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep, nose twitching as if searching for my scent, but doesn't wake. Blake's fingers flex against my ribs but don't tighten. Asher's eyes crack open just slightly—I feel his gaze on me through the dim light—but he doesn't speak. Doesn't stop me.
Testing, I realize. He's testing whether I'll run.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet. I grab the first dress I see—a sunny yellow sundress that hits just above my knees—and slip into the bathroom. The shower is quick, almost violent in my need to feel clean, to wash away the lingering anxiety that clings to my skin like smoke.
When I emerge, I deliberately choose bright gold woven sandals. Cheerful. Optimistic. The opposite of the growing dread coiling in my stomach that whispers: What if you go back to the Estate and everything changes? What if the magic only works here, in paradise, away from all the ghosts?
I make my way to the upper deck, where the yacht's crew has set up a breakfast area beneath white canvas umbrellas. The horizon is bleeding red now—sailors' warning, my father used to say, back when I still had a father who said things—and the ocean rocks us gently.
"Coffee, miss?" A crew member appears at my elbow, professional and unobtrusive.
"Black, please. And..." I hesitate. "Blueberry muffin?"
I'm still not used to asking for things. To wanting things. To believing I deserve them.
The coffee is strong and bitter. The muffin is warm, studded with fat berries that burst sweet on my tongue. I should be enjoying this—the sunrise, the salt air, the fact that I'm sitting here as someone's fiancée instead of scrubbing their floors.
But I can't stop staring at the ring on my finger.
Three ice-blue sapphires gleam in the early light, set in platinum so delicate it looks like frost. Ancient runes are etched into the band—I can't read them, but every time they catch the light, I feel a corresponding pulse through the bond. A reminder that Blake-Asher-Cole are somewhere on this yacht, probably still asleep, their emotions bleeding into mine even at this distance.
Except they're not asleep.
Through the bond, Blake's panic hits me like a fist to the sternum: She's not in bed!
Then Cole's devastation: Did she change her mind? Did we push too hard, too fast—
And Asher's cold, controlled terror underneath his calm: Don't spiral. Track her scent. She wouldn't leave without her things.
I barely have time to set down my coffee before they burst onto the deck.
Blake is shirtless, wearing only rumpled black pants that hang low on his hips. His hair sticks up in wild directions. One hand clutches his shirt, which he clearly grabbed but didn't put on. Behind him, Cole wears a light blue t-shirt backwards, the tag sticking out at his throat, and is barefoot in flip-flops. Only Asher managed to get fully dressed—dark jeans, white button-down—but even he looks disheveled, his hair uncombed and eyes slightly wild.
They look like they ran here.
"Kara." Blake's voice cracks on my name. He stops a few feet away, chest heaving. Through the bond, I feel his wolf clawing at him, demanding he close the distance, grab her, don't let her go again. "We woke up and you weren't—we thought—"
"I just wanted coffee," I say quietly. "And space to think."
"You left." Cole's voice is small. Wounded. "You always wait for us to wake up first. You always do. But this morning you just... left."
We've known each other for four days as mates, I want to say. How can there be an 'always'?
But I understand what he means. Since the marking, since the engagement, we've fallen into certain patterns. I do usually wait for them to wake, drinking in their sleepy affection, letting them pull me close for lazy morning kisses before we face the day.
This morning, I broke pattern.
And it terrified them.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just needed—"
Blake crosses the distance in two long strides and pulls me into his arms so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. His gunpowder-and-leather scent floods my senses, and my wolf keens with pleasure at being held, at being claimed again.
"Don't apologize," he mutters against my hair. "Just... next time, wake one of us? Please? I can't—" His voice drops so low I almost don't hear it. "I can't wake up thinking you left again. I can't, Kara."
Through the bond, I feel the echo of old fear: waking up alone, her scent fading, the knowledge that she's running and he can't follow, can't fix it, can't make it right—
"I'm not running," I say against his chest. I pull back enough to cup his face, force him to look at me. "I'm not. I just needed to clear my head. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
On impulse, I rise on my toes and press a kiss to his cheek. His stubble is rough against my lips, and he makes a sound—half-groan, half-whimper—that goes straight through me.
When I pull back, both Cole and Asher have moved closer. Cole's mint-ozone scent wraps around me, cool and soothing. Asher's black-ebony-tobacco smell is darker, heavier, but equally comforting in its familiarity.
"Can we join you?" Asher asks, nodding toward the breakfast table. "Or do you need more time alone?"
It's the fact that he asks—that he gives me the choice—that makes me shake my head. "Stay. Please."
---
Crew members materialize to add place settings. Within minutes, the table is laden with eggs Benedict, crispy bacon, tropical fruit platters, fresh orange juice. Blake pulls me onto his lap before I can sit in my own chair, arms banding around my waist.
"Blake—"
"You sit here," he says firmly. "I'll feed you."
"I can feed myself—"
"I know you can." He cuts into the eggs Benedict, liberating a perfect forkful of hollandaise-drenched perfection. "But I want to feed you. Humor me?"
Across the table, Cole grins. Asher just shakes his head, but there's fondness in his expression.
I open my mouth. Let Blake slide the fork between my lips. The rich, buttery flavors explode across my tongue, and I can't quite suppress the small sound of pleasure that escapes.
Through the bond, all three of them react—a pulse of heat, of hunger, of mine-ours-perfect.
"Okay, new rule," Cole says, voice strained. "Kara is not allowed to make those sounds unless we're alone."
"Agreed," Asher mutters. Then, to a hovering crew member: "Cognac. Now."
Blake stares at him. "Ash, it's seven in the morning."
"It's five o'clock somewhere." Asher's tone is flat, but through the bond, I feel his tension. He's wound tight as a wire, and I don't understand why.
"Just let him have his crisis drink," Cole says mildly. Then he turns to me, and his expression softens. "What do you want to do today? We could stay on the yacht, go swimming, explore the island..." He pauses. "Or we could talk. If you want."
The careful way he says it—if you want—makes my stomach clench.
Through the bond, I feel Cole pressing against something. A secret he's carrying. Something he thinks I need to know but is terrified to tell me.
"Talk about what?" I ask slowly.
Cole and Asher exchange a look. Blake's arms tighten fractionally around my waist.
"Later," Asher says. "After breakfast. After you've had time to enjoy the morning." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I promise, it's nothing bad. Just... something we should have told you before. Something you deserve to know."
My appetite vanishes.
Something we should have told you before.
The words echo in my head, triggering every alarm bell I have. Because in my experience, when someone says "it's nothing bad" right before dropping information, it's always bad.
But I don't push. Don't demand.
I just nod and let Blake feed me another bite of eggs that now tastes like ash in my mouth.