5. Grace
5
GRACE
T he sweatshirt swallows me whole, and the sweatpants are worse, bunched around my ankles like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. His.
Everything smells like Rowan, this mix of sea air and something darker. Musk, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s comforting in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
I curl up on the old, worn sofa, pulling my knees to my chest as he stands by the grill. The crackle of the fish sizzling fills the awkward silence.
What do you even say to the man who just had his fingers inside you? Not a damn thing, apparently.
How did this happen?
“This storm’s getting worse.” My voice is steadier now, but I keep my focus on the window, at the rain lashing against the glass. The wind howls, rattling the frame.
Rowan grunts, not even turning around. He is not a man of many words—that’s becoming crystal clear.
“You eat lobster?” he asks abruptly, flipping the fish with a spatula. His voice is rough, like gravel under tires.
I nod, even though his back is to me. “Yeah.”
He grabs a beer from the counter, pops the cap with one hand, and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. “Here.”
The cold bottle is damp under my palm. I take a sip, and for some reason, it sends a shiver—no, scratch that, a thrill—through me. I watch him return to the grill, his broad back blocking most of the small kitchen.
His shoulders roll with every motion, muscles shifting under his shirt. He looks like he belongs here, like the sea and this lighthouse have shaped him into something raw and untamed.
“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence. “I run Haven’s Nook. The flower shop in town.”
“That explains a lot.”
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He half-turns, glancing at me over his shoulder. “You smell like flowers.”
“Oh.” I tug at a strand of my hair, twisting it around my finger. “Thanks, I guess?”
Rowan doesn’t reply, just goes back to grilling like the conversation never happened. I let my gaze wander around the room.
The lighthouse interior is sparse—bare walls, mismatched furniture, and a single bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. A storm lantern flickers on the table, casting soft, uneven light. It’s functional, not cozy.
“Food’s ready,” he says, setting two plates on the small table by the window. He pulls out a chair and nods for me to sit.
I slide into the seat, the scent of garlic and lemon wafting up as I eye the grilled fish and lobster tails. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the moment the first bite hits my tongue, a soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.
Rowan’s head snaps up, his steel-gray eyes locking on mine. For a split second, something flickers in them—heat, maybe—but he looks away just as quickly, stabbing at his own plate.
“This is amazing,” I say, pushing through the awkwardness. “Seriously.”
He grunts again. That seems to be his default response.
I cut another piece of fish, savoring the burst of flavor. “I’m not much of a cook,” I admit, trying to keep the conversation alive.
“Why not?”
“No one to teach me,” I say simply, shrugging. My chest tightens for a second, but I shove the feeling down and keep eating.
I expect him to ask something—who, why—but he doesn’t. He just keeps eating, his fork scraping lightly against the plate.
Fine. I can take a hint. I focus on the food, letting the quiet settle between us. We both drink our beers, the bottles clinking faintly when we set them down.
When we’re done, I gather the plates. “I can rinse these?—”
“I’ve got it.” He’s already standing, taking the dishes from my hands. His fingers brush mine, and the contact is brief, but it’s enough to make my stomach flutter. I step back, letting him take over.
“You should take the bed,” he says, not looking at me.
“What? No. I don’t want to put you out.”
He doesn’t argue, doesn’t even respond. He just grabs a set of sheets from the hall closet and walks past me, heading for the stairs. I follow him up, my stocking feet silent on the wooden steps.
The bedroom is small, like the rest of the lighthouse, but clean. A simple bed, neatly made, takes up most of the space. There’s a window overlooking the stormy sea, and the walls are painted a muted gray.
“Here.” Rowan hands me the sheets, his gaze flicking to mine for the briefest moment before darting away. “Goodnight.”
“Thanks,” I say softly, clutching the linens as he turns and disappears down the stairs. His footsteps echo, and then it’s quiet again.
I set the sheets on the bed and take a deep breath, letting the room settle around me. His scent lingers everywhere—salt, woodsmoke, and that elusive musk. It wraps around me, soothing in a way I can’t explain.
I ignore the clean sheets and slide straight under the covers, burrowing deep into the mattress.
His scent wraps around me, grounding and heady—and it sinks into my skin like a promise.
Guilt flickers for a second as thunder growls outside, but in here, cocooned in his bed, surrounded by the soft press of Alpha comfort, my body finally lets go.
Muscles unwind. Breath slows. I feel safe.
Sleep drags me under, and the last thing I know is the scent of him sinking into my bones.
* * *
I wake up, and it hits me again: that unbearable heat spreading through me like I’m on fire.
I squeeze my legs together, curling up in the sheets. It’s useless. It’s coming wether I want it to or not.
My body aches for relief, but my pride keeps me from doing anything reckless. Like going downstairs and asking him for… what?
“Fuck,” I whimper into the pillow, wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead.
And then I hear it. The creak of a stair. My head snaps up, eyes glued to the doorway. He’s there. Rowan. Shirtless.
My throat goes dry as my gaze runs down his chest. Broad, solid muscle. His skin is tanned, dusted with dark hair.
My breath catches when my eyes follow the trail that starts at his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of low-slung sweatpants. There’s a deep V carved into his hips, leading...
I swallow hard.
His jaw clenches, and his steel-gray eyes are on me, darker than before.
“Rowan,” I whisper, my voice shaky, needy.
He closes the distance between, moving carefully. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I follow the movement like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
“Grace,” he grunts.
“Help me,” I say, barely recognizing myself.
His jaw works like he’s trying to keep control. “You sure about that?”
I nod, frantic, desperate. “Please.”
He doesn’t say another word. He just moves.
Before I can blink, he’s at the edge of the bed. His hands are on my legs, tugging me toward him, my body sliding across the mattress like I weigh nothing.
I’m burning up, my skin hypersensitive under his touch.
He grips the waistband of the sweatpants he gave me and looks up, his eyes locking with mine. “Last chance to tell me no.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. I just whimper.
He pulls them down, slow enough to make my pulse race but firmly enough that there’s no mistaking his intent. The cool air hits me, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze fixed on me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I squirm under his scrutiny. “Rowan...”
His hand brushes up the inside of my thigh, rough knuckles grazing sensitive skin. My hips jerk on instinct, chasing the contact.
“You’re soaked,” he says, almost a growl.
I bite my lip, too embarrassed to respond.
He doesn’t waste time. He spins me onto my stomach, his hands firm but careful as he positions me. My face presses into the pillow, my body bent over the edge of the bed.
“What are you?—”
“Relax,” he cuts me off, his voice right by my ear.
I try, but it’s impossible. My body’s too wound up, too desperate.
He shifts behind me, and then his hands are back, parting my legs. I gasp when I feel his breath against me, hot and teasing. I want him to lean in and lick me.
I need him so badly.
“Rowan,” I choke out, half a plea, half a warning.
“Patience,” he says, slowly dragging his knuckles up my center.
I whimper, gripping the sheets. The teasing is unbearable, and I’m seconds from begging him to stop playing when his fingers slide inside me, rough and relentless.
“Oh, God,” I cry out, my body arching.
He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t slow down. His fingers curl, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
It’s overwhelming, the way he works me, like he knows exactly what I need.
It doesn’t take long before I’m there, shaking apart around him.
But it’s not enough.
“More,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Please.”
He pulls back, leaving me aching and empty. I hear the rustle of fabric behind me, and my stomach flips.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s standing there, his sweatpants hanging dangerously low as his hand moves over himself.
“Rowan,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “Turn around.”
I hesitate, but the command in his tone leaves no room for argument. I roll onto my back, my legs still dangling over the edge of the bed.
His hand slides over my thigh, spreading me open again. I shiver at the way his gaze lingers, like he’s committing every inch of me to memory.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, almost to himself. “Why do you have to smell so fucking good?”
I blush, but before I can respond, his fingers are back on me, stroking and teasing until I’m a mess beneath him.
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Tell me what you want, beautiful.”
“I want… I want...” My words trail off as another wave of pleasure hits me.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “That’s what I thought.”
I come again, harder this time, my body convulsing under his touch.
I barely have time to catch my breath before he’s pulling me into his arms, his chest solid and warm against mine.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and unexpected. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs.
Before I can respond, he’s gone, leaving me tangled in the sheets, my body humming with satisfaction and my mind spinning.
Sleep comes for me fast.
* * *
The sun’s out. I blink a few times, groggy as hell. My body’s sore in places I don’t want to think about.
For a second, I forget where I am, but the scent of musk and saltwater punches me right in the gut. His scent.
Rowan.
I push myself up, my fingers tangling in the soft sheets. The storm’s over. The lighthouse is quieter now, except for the faint whistle of the wind outside.
It takes a second, but then I remember. I remember everything.
My cheeks burn, and I squirm, burying my face in my hands. Last night. Fuck. I shouldn’t have?—
No, stop thinking about it. Just get up.
I glance around, and that’s when I see them. My white dress and panties, neatly folded at the edge of the bed. He must’ve dried and brought them here during the night. My stomach flips, and not in a good way.
“Okay, Grace,” I mutter to myself, sliding out of bed. “Just… get dressed and leave.”
But as I grab his sweatshirt, the soft fabric clings to me, and I hesitate. It smells like him. Warm, musky, a little woodsy.
My fingers tighten on the fabric for a moment before I shake my head. God, what’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t want to keep it, but I do.
Dressed, I run a hand through my hair, wincing when my fingers catch on knots. Great. I probably look like a disaster.
I check the nightstand for a mirror or brush, anything, but instead, I find them—pictures.
I freeze, staring.
There are a couple of them, scattered around. The first one’s of Rowan, his arm around a woman. She’s stunning—dark hair, sharp cheekbones, perfect smile.
My throat tightens as I pick up the next one. They’re laughing. In another, he’s carrying her, her legs wrapped around his waist. And the last one… they’re kissing.
“Shit.” My hands shake as I set the pictures down.
I shouldn’t be this affected. He’s an Alpha. Of course, there’s someone else. There’s always someone else.
But why didn’t I smell her? There was no trace of anyone else in this place. Does she live far away? Or… is he just a cheater?
The thought makes me nauseous.
I grab one of the pictures without thinking and head downstairs. I hear him before I see him, the clink of a mug on wood and the low hum of his voice, probably talking to himself.
When I reach the kitchen, I stop short. He’s standing by the window, sipping coffee. His back’s to me, broad and bare, and he’s wearing these low-slung joggers that hang dangerously on his hips.
His hair’s all messy, like he just rolled out of bed, and for a second, I forget why I’m pissed.
Then I remember.
I walk up to the table, dropping the photo in front of him. “Who is she?”
He freezes mid-sip, his shoulders going rigid. Slowly, he sets the mug down and turns to me. His gaze drops to the photo, and something shifts in his expression.
“Grace,” he says, his voice low.
“Who is she?” I repeat, sharper now.
He picks up the photo, his jaw tightening. “You went through my shit?”
“It was on the nightstand. Don’t make this about me.” I fold my arms and glare at him. “Just answer the question.”
He steps closer, holding the picture up. “How fucking dare you?”
“I dared because I have a right to know!” I snap.
“A right?” He laughs, but it’s cold and sharp. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You don’t fucking know me. You begged me to help you last night. That means nothing.”
Before I can argue, he grabs me by the arm, dragging me to the wall. His hand presses against my throat—not tight, just enough to hold me there.
My pulse races. For the first time, I really see him. Not as the guy from last night, but as an Alpha. The dangerous, lethal kind. If he wanted to, he could crush me.
“Let me go,” I whisper.
“Don’t go poking around in shit that doesn’t concern you,” he growls. His eyes are piercing.
I swallow hard, my gaze locking on his. “You’re hiding something. Why? Who is she? Is she your mate?”
He steps back like I’ve burned him. His hand falls away, and he rakes it through his hair, pacing. “Mind your own fucking business.”
“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” I press. “You’re claimed.”
His head snaps toward me, his eyes blazing. For a second, I think he’s going to lash out again, but instead, he exhales sharply. “I’ll put gas in your car.”
“What?”
He turns, grabbing a set of keys from the counter. “There’s a jerrycan in the truck. I’ll fill it up.”
“Rowan—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off coldly.
The warmth from last night is gone, replaced with something distant and sharp. I stand there, clutching the hem of my dress, unsure of what to say.
“Get your stuff,” he mutters, heading for the door.
I linger for a moment, running a hand over my face. By the time I step outside, he’s already at the back of the truck, pouring gasoline into the jerrycan.
We get in his truck and head toward the stretch of road where I left my car. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, taking in the hard set of his jaw, his tight grip on the steering wheel.
“Who is she?” I ask again, breaking the silence.
His knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Drop it.”
I wish I could. “You owe me an answer.”
He slams the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road. “I don’t owe you shit, Grace.”
I flinch but don’t back down. “Fine, but you’re a coward if you think running from this is the answer.”
His laugh is bitter. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“I know enough,” I shoot back.
His gaze flicks to mine, and there’s something raw in his eyes. “Get out.”
“What?”
“You can walk the rest of the way.”
I gape at him. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” He leans over, popping the door open. He passes me the jerrycan.
I stare at him for a second longer before grabbing my bag and stepping out. The door slams shut, and he speeds off without another word.
I watch until the truck disappears over the hill, my chest tight with anger and something I don’t want to name.
Who was she? And why does it matter so damn much?