Chapter 156: Madeline
I glance at Liam working the lines and ask—louder than I intended, over the crashing of the growing waves—“Can I help?”
The twins exchange a look. One of those silent, weighted looks that says they're trying to decide if I can handle it or not. If I’ll be more help than a hazard.
But I straighten up and hold their eyes. “Please. I want to help.”
Jake gives a small nod. “Okay. Grab all your equipment and lock it into the storage unit. Double check the latch. Then head into the crew lounge—make sure there’s nothing loose. No mugs or utensils or tools. Lock down everything you can.”
Reid nods tightly. “I’ll help Liam with the lines. Be quick.”
Jake moves back to the wheel, and I waste no time. I run below deck, down the slick, narrow stairs, and start collecting my gear with shaking hands. The boat is starting to rock more aggressively now, and I brace one hand on the wall, counting each piece of equipment out loud so I don’t miss anything. One by one, I lock them in place, tightening the latch until it clicks.
Not even five minutes pass before I hear it—rain, tapping the top of the boat like fingertips at first… then like nails. Sharp and fast. When I open the hatch to head into the lounge, it’s coming down like a curtain of needles. It hits me instantly, soaking through my clothes and into my skin.
I don’t realize how hard I’m breathing until I see Reid coming toward me, soaked head to toe, sleeves clinging to his arms. He presses a life jacket into my hands—then another into Liam’s—and holds two more at his side.
I look at him, eyebrows drawn together. Life jackets?
He sees the question all over my face. “Don’t panic,” he says, calm but firm. “It’s just safer this way. Wear it. And when you’re done, get inside. I don’t want you out in this.”
I nod and swallow hard.
The wind howls louder now. The sky is darkening like bruised flesh. I duck into the crew lounge and lock everything down—the cabinets, the drawers, the latch on the storage closet. I shove a few cups into the sink and hold my breath every time the boat tilts too far.
But then the boat lurches sideways—hard—and I’m thrown across the room. My shoulder slams the floor first, then my elbow, then I roll.
Pain bursts through me, but I push myself up, gasping, heart pounding. I stumble back outside just in time to see the waves.
They're massive. Towering, dark, crashing in angles and directions that make no sense.
This is what Reid meant, back when he said I wasn’t ready for rough seas. Because I’m not. I can’t stay upright. I can’t stop shaking. I’m soaking wet and useless out here, watching as Reid and Liam tie down anything not already latched. Even Liam—who’s far more used to this—stumbles, and Reid catches him by the back of the jacket and yells something I can’t hear over the wind.
“Fuck,” Reid shouts, and then I hear him yell to Liam—“Go to the wheelhouse!”
Another wave is coming. I can feel it in the air—pressure shifting, wind screaming louder, the boat tilting forward like it’s bracing too.
Then, suddenly, Reid is there.
He doesn’t just grab me—he covers me.
His arm wraps tight around my waist, yanking me flush against his chest in one fluid motion. It knocks the air out of me. My soaked clothes slap against his drenched ones, no space left between us. He moves fast, turns us away from the spray, and just as the wall of water crashes over the back of the boat—he takes it. All of it.
I gasp as it hits, but it doesn’t reach me.
Because he’s there.
A fortress of muscle and soaked flannel and fury, shielding me like he’d go to war with the ocean itself if it meant I stayed dry.
He doesn’t flinch.
Water pours down his back and shoulders in sheets, soaking his hair, dripping off the sharp edge of his jaw. He’s breathing hard, his hand flexing around my waist like he’s grounding himself in the feel of me—like he needs that contact just as much as I do.
I press my face into his chest without thinking, heart hammering, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might anchor me.
He shifts his hand, spreads his fingers against my spine, pulls me closer.
Still tense. Still on edge. But not from fear.
From control. From restraint.
He’s holding back something dangerous and dark—and I can feel it in every inch of how he holds me. Not shaking. Not trembling. But coiled. Solid. Hot despite the storm.
And God, I feel safe.
I shouldn’t be thinking this right now—not while the boat rocks under us and the sky roars like it wants to eat us alive. But I am. I’m thinking about his arms. About how big he is. About how he smelled last night, clean and warm and faintly like cedar. How his eyes darken when they look at me like I’m the only thing he sees.
Another wave crashes. He doesn’t even blink. Just tightens his hold like I weigh nothing, like this is exactly where he wants me.
“Got you,” he growls low in my ear. Almost too low to hear. But I do.
And it sends a full-body shiver straight down my spine.
Then he moves—swift and sure—and steers us through the stairs like the storm doesn’t exist. One hand on the door, the other still firm on my waist. And I know I’m not breathing right. I know my skin is too warm, too alert.
I just nearly drowned in a storm.
And all I can think about is him.
Jake swears when he sees us.
“Jesus—” He doesn’t even finish. He’s gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands, sweat on his forehead, drenched to the bone too. “You okay?”
“We’re good,” Reid answers before I can speak, already locking the hatch behind us. I can feel him behind me still, solid and close, like he’s not going to let go until this storm passes—or maybe not even then.
And right now, I don’t want him to.