Chapter 7
7
CRYSTAL
I wake to the heady scent of salt, sweat, and sin, tangled in sheets that don’t belong to me and a body heat that definitely isn’t mine. For a disoriented, breathless second, I’m convinced I’ve stepped into some alternate reality—one where Cruz Devlin isn’t just a walking thirst trap but the very real, very naked man stretched out beside me, radiating satisfaction and post-orgasmic serenity like a human heat lamp. My brain short-circuits, caught between academic panic and the undeniable memory of everything he did with me last night.
Cruz is asleep next to me, sprawled on his back like he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting titled 'Victory in the Sheets.' One arm is flung over his head in careless abandon, the other stretched dangerously close, as if even in sleep he knows exactly how to push boundaries. His face is a maddening picture of peace—and just enough smug satisfaction to make me want to hit him over the head with a pillow, smother him with one or wake him up and ask if we can do it again. He's the kind of man who conquers, collapses, and doesn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. And damn him, it’s still sexy.
My thighs ache in that deeply satisfying, borderline obscene way that confirms last night wasn’t just a fever dream or a product of my overworked academic imagination. Nope—every delicious, toe-curling, brain-melting second of it was real. Loud enough to startle seabirds. Intense enough to leave claw marks on Cruz’s back. Possibly illegal in certain counties—and definitely worth risking a fine for.
I shift carefully, trying not to disturb the sleeping alpha male beside me. Every cell in my body screams to stay wrapped in the warmth of him, to give in to the comfort of a night that still echoes in my bones. But I need to get up. Think. Find my damn pants, my dignity, and the last remaining scraps of my professional objectivity. Because this? This can’t become a pattern. No matter how good it felt to be touched like a secret, kissed like a promise, and wanted like I was the only damn thing that mattered. Claimed like that, body and breath and beyond. And that’s the part that terrifies me most.
Don’t sigh. Do not sigh, Crystal. Because sighing implies feelings, and feelings imply meaning, and meaning implies consequences. And you, Dr. Crystal Evans, are supposed to be rational. Focused. Immune to charming, frustrating, ocean-eyed treasure hunters who turn your body into a battleground and your brain into mush.
I sigh.
Slipping out of bed without waking him is a stealth op that should earn me honorary SEAL status and possibly a small, tasteful medal. Cruz shifts once, muttering something unintelligible—probably 'more,' knowing him—but doesn’t stir. I exhale slowly, like defusing a bomb, and reach for the nearest piece of clothing. His hoodie, the same worn, soft one that smells like cedar, salt, and something distinctly him, is draped over a chair. I tug it and a pair of leggings on, letting the hoodie swallow me whole, sleeves hanging past my hands as I scoop up my sandals and my notes before tiptoeing out like a professorial ninja. Clutching my papers to my chest like they might keep me morally grounded, I make my escape back to the lighthouse.
The air outside is cooler than I expect, crisp and briny, like the ocean is trying to slap some sense back into me. My cheeks are flushed—partially from the walk back to my rental and the archives, but mostly from the still-glowing, still-smug echo of last night and all its not-even-remotely-casual implications. I can still feel him, like an aftershock humming under my skin, warm and lingering in places that have no business remembering how good he felt.
Focus, Evans. There was a tunnel collapse, remember? Sabotage. Secrets. Sharks. You have a job to do.
Heather is already at the archive when I get there, sipping from a mug that says, 'Plot Twist.' Fitting.
"You look like someone just committed a federal offense against your virtue," she says, not even glancing up from her laptop. "Like your whole worldview got thoroughly rearranged by someone with suspiciously perfect forearms and an aversion to shirts."
"I tripped over my feelings. Full-on face plant. It was horrifying. Like emotional whiplash wearing Cruz’s smirk and yesterday’s hoodie. My brain staged a protest, my dignity is filing a lawsuit, and my libido is doing victory laps with a tiny flag that says 'Team Devlin.'"
She snorts. "So you slept with the rogue diver? Color me shocked. You’ve known the man for, what, a week? Less? I thought you would keep it strictly professional, although I'm not sure I'd have done much better."
"Heather," I hiss. "We are surrounded by three hundred-year-old documents. Keep your scandalous voice down."
She raises both eyebrows. "Honey, those documents have seen worse. Believe me."
I bury myself in the table full of maps and plat books, trying to outrun the smirk on her face. It’s only the second time I’ve met Heather, and she’s already pegged me harder than most of my dissertation advisors ever managed. I spread out the coastal survey again, tracing the lines of the bluffs and old smuggling tunnels. The collapsed tunnel was a dead end—but something in the 1682 sketch I found keeps nagging at me, like a breadcrumb left by a ghost with a grudge and a flair for dramatic architecture.
"The old boardwalk," I mutter, the words tumbling out before I fully process what they mean. My pulse jumps. The lines on the 1682 map suddenly reorient in my mind, like a puzzle clicking into place. That second tunnel—it doesn’t just lead nowhere. It ends beneath the original stretch of Pelican Point’s boardwalk, back when this entire area was still a trade outpost, pretending not to be a smuggler’s paradise.
Heather looks up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. "Come again?"
"The outpost map I found had a second tunnel route. It veers off from the main passage and ends beneath what would now be the original boardwalk. Back before it was turned into the half-collapsed walkway of doom, it is today."
"So... a second site?"
"Or first. Depending on which tunnel was built later. Either way, it’s worth a look."
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pacing the edge of the old boardwalk with a copy of the sketch in one hand and my phone clutched in the other like it’s going to save me if things get dicey. Not that I need saving. I’ve done this before—followed hunches into places most historians wouldn’t touch without a full research grant and two assistants. I’m good at what I do. I’ve survived archives that should’ve come with tetanus warnings and fieldwork that required actual snakebite protocols. Still, I hear Cruz’s voice in the back of my head telling me not to go off solo. I shove down the little voice that tells me I should listen to him.
My leather sandals scuff against the warped wood, each step groaning under the weight of time and poor decisions. The morning fog hasn’t burned off yet, blurring the edges of the world until everything feels half-formed and haunted. Salt, mildew, and something sharper—rust, maybe, or old secrets—cling to the air like a warning. The whole boardwalk creaks like it’s not happy to have visitors, and honestly? The feeling’s mutual.
I find it. A half-hidden hatch under a broken bench, rusted shut and crusted with salt, nearly invisible unless you already suspect it’s there—and I do. Because I don’t just stumble on things. I look. I study. I connect the dots no one else even sees.
It takes some serious prying, a few creative curses that would make a pirate proud, and a splinter in my palm that I’ll be complaining about later to get it open. The hinges groan like the hatch hasn’t moved in a century, and maybe it hasn’t. Inside, the tunnel yawns dark and narrow, but unlike the last one, this one hasn’t collapsed. Yet.
I hesitate—just for a second. Not because I’m scared. Because I know what I’m walking into. Because sometimes the biggest risks are the ones that feel the most right.
The air hits me like a memory—damp, earthy, and laced with rot and salt, curling around my skin like a forgotten whisper or a warning. I ease down slowly, careful not to jostle the boards too much, my flashlight slicing through the thick shadows as I descend into the unknown.
This is where I belong. Not on camera. Not chasing ratings. Right here—on the edge of discovery.
And then I see it. A cache box. Old. Iron-bound. Locked. The kind of thing that feels like it should be holding a cursed medallion or a map that leads to more questions than answers. It’s half-buried in damp earth and moss, wedged between jagged rocks like it didn’t want to be found. I kneel beside it, heart pounding with adrenaline and nerdy glee, my fingers itching to trace every rusted edge and worn engraving like I’m greeting an old friend with a thousand secrets.
I grin. I might be in over my head, but damn if I don’t know how to swim. I start to pry open the lid and hear and almost inaudible click.
My instincts scream so loud it's almost deafening. The split-second my foot shifts, I feel the tension give—a tiny, unnatural resistance in the board beneath me. Then comes the sound: a snap, sharp and sinister, like a jaw locking shut. I launch myself sideways with no grace, just pure, feral survival, as the board I was standing on cracks clean through…the old box falling into darkness. From the dark space beneath, a row of rusted spikes shoot upward with brutal mechanical precision—too fast, too smooth to be a relic of decay. They slam into the space where I was, slicing the air with a shriek of metal that sounds hungry. It’s not age. It’s a trap—designed to kill, not scare. Someone built this, primed it, and waited. And I just triggered it.
"Holy shit," I gasp, heart hammering. I scramble back, panting. Someone rigged a trap. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Crystal!" Cruz's voice cuts through the silence like a blade, startling me before his boots even thud into earshot. He bursts into view at the hatch, eyes wide, jaw locked in a mix of fear and fury—and the unmistakable look of someone who hasn't known you for more than ten days but is already acting like he has something to lose. "Have you lost your mind?” He hauls me up with one hand, the other going immediately to my arms, my waist, checking for injuries. "You okay?"
"I dodged."
"Dodged," he repeats, voice flat. "You dodged a spike trap. Alone. With no backup."
"It wasn’t exactly on the map," I mutter, cheeks flushing.
His eyes burn into mine. "What if you hadn’t seen it? What if you tripped? What if you..."
"I didn’t."
"You could have died." Silence. Heavy. His hands are still on me, holding me tight enough to feel it in my bones. "Don’t do this alone again," he says. It's not a command. It's a plea.
My breath stutters. "I’m used to doing things alone."
"Well, you’re not alone anymore. Not in this. Not in anything."
The air crackles. I can’t look away from him. His voice, low and rough, wraps around something inside me I didn't realize had been waiting—for steadiness, for safety, for someone who gives a damn despite barely knowing me. And the terrifying part? I believe him.
I nod. "Okay. Sorry."
His hand brushes mine, fingers sliding down, linking. Just for a second. But it’s enough. It anchors me—not to the moment, but to him. And even though we’ve barely known each other for ten days, even though this should still feel new and unsteady, it doesn’t. It feels inevitable. Like a door closing quietly behind us, locking into place.
I’m not just chasing the past anymore. I’m chasing something with him. Something more, I sense, than just the La Reina I sense—a future perhaps?
As we step out into the daylight, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching us. That prickling awareness between the shoulder blades—the one that says you're not alone, even when you should be. Cruz feels it too; I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his body shifts instinctively to put himself between me and the shadows. Somewhere behind us, buried in the ruin of creaking boards and forgotten secrets, something groans—not just age or weather, but intent. It’s subtle, almost dismissible. Almost. But not quite.
And suddenly, I know with absolute certainty—this isn’t over. Not even close. Whoever set that trap is still out there. Maybe it’s the wind shifting through the broken slats, or the faint crunch of footsteps that aren’t ours—but something malevolent lingers here, thick and patient like the scent of rust and old blood. My skin prickles, nerves stretched tight, and deep in my gut, a warning settles cold and undeniable. We’ve disturbed something. And it will not let us walk away unchallenged.