Love for Gabriella (SEALed in Love #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

PICASSO

The first light of dawn bled over the horizon, bruising the sky in purple and orange. To the right, the Atlantic crashed against the shore, a heavy, rhythmic bass line to the chorus of ragged breaths and pounding boots. The crisp air burned in Picasso’s lungs, but he welcomed it.

He led the pack. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the horizon, but he didn’t wipe it away.

Ten miles pressed heavily on his calves, a deep, searing heat that most men would stop to escape.

Picasso leaned into it. The pain was familiar.

It was a reminder of what his body could endure, and the price of standing at the front.

His mind flicked back to BUD/s, to those brutal days in Coronado where the ocean was not just cold but a merciless teacher.

The instructors pushed him beyond limits he did not believe he had, breaking him down only to rebuild something harder and sharper.

Every muscle ache, every burning lung, every frozen wave crashing over him had been wages paid for the edge he carried now.

But this, the rhythm of his team moving beneath the waking sky, the Atlantic’s relentless pulse, was different.

BUD/s had been about surviving hell, but here it was about leading men through it.

The weight was not just physical anymore; it was responsibility.

Picasso had learned that some limits were not about the flesh but about the will.

Behind him, he heard the distinct, slicing gait of Michael “Falcon” Greene. Even ten miles in, Falcon sounded annoyingly fresh.

“Come on, Picasso! Don’t tell me you’re letting the rest of us catch up!”

Picasso didn’t need to look back to picture Falcon’s trademark smirk. “Not a chance,” he gritted out, forcing a grin through the exhaustion.

To his left, Ryan “Reef” Carter was practically dancing through the surf. The kid was part fish; the ocean energized him while it battered everyone else. Reef kicked up a sheet of spray with a jagged leap. “Last one in the ocean buys breakfast!”

On the right, the heavy thud of boots announced Ben “Grizzly” Adams. The big man didn’t run; he rumbled.

He was a tank among the Ferraris pounding the sand, yet somehow, he never fell behind.

“Y’all think this is a race?” Grizzly wheezed, a grin hidden in his gravelly voice.

“Just you wait till we hit the weights. That’s when the real misery starts. ”

Picasso spotted the finish line, a weathered driftwood log half-swallowed by sand. Adrenaline kicked in, drowning out the fatigue. Not today, he told himself. He surged forward, sand spraying behind him, and crossed the log just a stride ahead of the pack.

He slowed, hands on knees, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath while the others caught up.

“Look who finally decided to slow down, Falcon,” Reef teased, a grin tugging at his sweat-streaked face and breathless voice. “Even the sand was getting bored waiting for you.”

Falcon shot back, feigning outrage despite the rasp in his tone. “Please, I was just letting you all catch your breath. Wouldn’t want you choking on that salty beach air. You’re welcome.”

Grizzly snorted between heavy breaths, wiping sweat from his brow. “Keep dreaming, speed demon. Let’s see if you can keep up that talk when we hit the weights and your arms turn to noodles.”

Picasso pushed upright, shaking his head with a grin, his lungs still burning. “Speaking of noodles, Grizz, I’m counting on you to make sure tomorrow’s workout feels like a medieval torture session.”

Grizzly gave him a mock glare, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Don’t worry, I got you. You’ll scream, but I’ll be there to laugh at every bloody second.”

Picasso peeled off his soaked shirt, the cold morning wind biting at his skin, but he didn’t flinch.

As the fabric came away, it revealed the intricate tattoos inked across his body.

A sprawling, tribal Polynesian design dominated his chest and right shoulder, a complex tapestry of dark, geometric patterns and swirling lines that flowed seamlessly down his right arm to the wrist. He had drawn every line himself, developing the design from doodles sketched during endless meetings, transforming idle boredom into personal armor.

Around him, boots and gear thudded onto the sand, falling into a familiar pile, the silent punctuation to their ritual. The ocean ignored the exhaustion etched in their bodies from the grueling ten-mile run. Its steady rhythm was constant and eternal.

Without a word or signal, Picasso pivoted and plunged into the frothy surf.

The Atlantic hit him like a barrage, a freezing jolt that snapped his muscles awake, and water lashed against his face with a biting spray.

He kicked hard, breaking through the crashing breakers with raw power.

Behind him, the team followed in tight formation.

Falcon sliced through the water like a knife, Reef glided smoothly, and Grizzly powered through the swells like a destroyer.

The sharp tang of salt filled his nostrils, mingling with the briny scent of seaweed and the faint, distant whistle of the wind. The roar of the waves crashed against the shore, a relentless percussion that drowned out thought and demand.

Salt stung his eyes, scouring sweat and grit from his skin, leaving him raw but renewed.

Past the breakers, the water calmed and smoothed into a glassy expanse. Picasso settled into treading water, feeling the vast, steady pull of the tide beneath him, a deep, ancient force grounding him, steady and unchanging beneath the currents.

Here, in the wild salt and endless horizon, he felt alive.

When they finally dragged themselves back onto the sand, chests heaving and skin tingling, Picasso cleared his throat.

“Alright. Clean up. Gear up. Briefing at 0800 sharp.” His voice was steady, exhaustion locked away. The run was over; the job was just beginning.

He scanned their faces and paused before speaking again. “Hurricane will link up with us after the briefing. He’s helping his mom take his dad to the doctor. Their place is about two hours from the base.”

A silence settled over the group. Nods came slowly, heavy with unspoken concern. Cancer was a brutal battle, and the team had vowed to always help carry the load.

Grizzly’s voice broke the quiet, rough but sincere. “If they need us, maybe we visit their place on our next day off. Yard work, repairs, whatever.”

Reef looked up, determination hardening his jaw. “Yeah. Tristan’s been carrying a lot. We should all pitch in. Show him he’s not alone.”

Picasso felt the familiar burn behind his eyes but kept his expression steady. “Good call. I’ll check in with ‘Cane and plan a time to meet at his dad’s house. For now, let’s get cleaned up and get to the briefing.”

As the men began moving, Picasso allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate the bond between them, a silent pact forged in sweat, hardship, and something deeper than duty. They weren’t just a team. They were family.

Forty minutes later, the raw, elemental world of the beach felt like a different planet.

Picasso walked down the sterile, brightly lit corridor of the base, the silence humming in his ears. He had scrubbed salt from his skin and replaced damp gear with crisp fabric. The transition sharpened his focus. The physical endurance test was done; now came the strategic precision.

They filed into the conference room. Picasso took his seat, his eyes automatically sweeping the table. Habit.

He noted the steady postures, the focused expressions. But his mind, irritatingly wired for perfection, caught the flaws. A crease on Falcon’s right sleeve. A faint bulge in Grizzly’s cargo pocket that shouldn’t be there. A rim of sand still clinging to the sole of Reef’s boot.

Picasso suppressed a sigh. He’d let it slide for now, but tomorrow, the locker room inspection would be tighter. Perfection wasn’t a goal; it was the standard that kept them alive.

The door swung open. Commander Rachel Bennett didn’t just walk in; she immediately drew every eye in the room.

The whole team snapped to attention, standing tall and rigid.

Bennett was a legend. She was the first female SEAL, the first to rise through the ranks to lead a squadron, yet still humble enough to know every operator’s name and every detail of their family history.

She didn’t just command the room; she owned it.

“At ease,” she snapped, her voice cutting the silence.

Shoulders relaxed. Bennett walked to the head of the table, her stern expression softening just enough to reveal a faint smile.

She reached into her pocket and tossed a handful of Tootsie Rolls onto the sleek table, her trademark vice.

With that, the men felt permission to lighten up as the atmosphere eased.

Laptops clicked open. Picasso’s eyes locked onto the giant monitor on the wall.

It displayed a sprawling aerial shot of Mexico City. But it wasn’t the city he knew. Buildings collapsed into rubble. Streets were severed. Dust hung over the image like a shroud.

The caption at the bottom read: Aftermath - 8.1 Magnitude.