Chapter 36 #2
We drift through the festival as a group, stopping to sample fried clams and browse handmade crafts and watch a group of children compete in a lobster-themed obstacle course that involves crawling through tunnels and pinching clothespins with oversized foam claws.
Atticus buys a jar of local honey from a bearded man who talks about his bees with the reverence usually reserved for religious figures.
Dom disappears briefly and returns with a funnel cake that he refuses to share with anyone.
At some point, we stumble across a booth selling wish lanterns.
The display is simple—a table covered in biodegradable paper lanterns in soft colors, each one attached to a small wooden frame designed to float on water. A hand-painted sign explains the tradition:
HARMONY HARBOR WISH LANTERNS
Write your wish on the paper. Place it in the lantern. Float it out to sea.
If it drifts beyond sight before landing in the water, your wish will come true.
Lanterns are biodegradable and safe for marine life!
“This is so touristy,” Mason murmurs, but there’s no real criticism in his voice. If anything, he sounds nostalgic.
“It’s a tradition,” Judah corrects gently. “Been doing this since I was a kid. My dad used to bring us every year.”
The vendor, a cheerful woman with silver-streaked hair and paint-stained fingers, beams at us. “Five lanterns, then? Markers are right here. Take your time with the wishes.”
Before I can decide whether this is charming or ridiculous, Atticus has already handed over cash for the whole group. He accepts five lanterns and a handful of markers, distributing them without fanfare.
We spread out slightly along the waterfront, each of us finding our own spot to write. The late afternoon sun slants golden across the harbor, and the sound of the festival fades to pleasant background noise.
I stare at my blank lantern. The paper is a soft cream color, slightly textured beneath my fingers. The marker hovers above it, waiting.
What do I wish for?
A month ago, the answer would have been obvious. Career success. Critical acclaim. The kind of respect that’s always seemed just out of reach, dangling in front of me like a carrot I can never quite bite.
Now?
I glance at the others without quite meaning to.
Mason writes something, each swoop of the pen quick and efficient, but shields the words from view with his hand.
Judah takes his time, biting his bottom lip as he considers the paper.
Dom scrawls something, scowls at it, crosses it out with aggressive strokes.
Atticus stares at his blank lantern for a long moment.
Then, with a decisive movement, he writes just a single word.
Sneaking closer to look at their papers would obviously be a complete invasion of privacy, but I’m still really tempted to do it.
What do I wish for?
My marker touches paper. The words flow out before I can second-guess them:
I want to be loved more than I am desired.
I fold the paper so no one can read it and tuck it into the lantern frame.
We gather at the launch area—a section of the harbor where the water laps gently against weathered wooden pilings.
The vendor has set up a small floating dock specifically for this purpose, and a few other festival-goers are already releasing their own lanterns, watching them float away above the gentle waves.
“On three?” Atticus suggests.
We line up along the dock’s edge, lanterns cupped carefully in our hands. The paper glows soft and luminous in the fading light.
“One,” Mason counts.
“Two,” Judah adds.
“Three,” we say together, and five lanterns hit the water.
The lanterns hover uncertainly for a moment, circling in the vortex of wind created by the harbor. Then, as if by agreement, they begin to drift outward.
My lantern catches a current almost immediately.
It pulls away from the others, spinning gently, and catches a gust of wind that sends it skimming perilously close to the water’s surface before swooping upward.
Within moments, it’s farther out than any of the others—a pale shape growing smaller and smaller against the bright blue sky.
“Damn,” Dom mutters. “Yours really caught the wind.”
I watch my lantern until it’s just a speck on the horizon. Until it fades from view entirely, swallowed by the vast expanse of the Atlantic.
If it drifts beyond sight, your wish will come true.
I don’t believe in wishes. Not really. Not in the practical, adult sense of the word.
But standing here and surrounded by these men, wishes coming true almost does feel possible.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I announce, breaking the contemplative mood. “I’ll meet you guys at the beer garden.”
Mason immediately turns to me. “Need me to go with you?”
“I’ll be fine on my own for five minutes.” I hand Gerald Jr. off to Atticus, who accepts the stuffed lobster with surprising dignity. “Guard him with your life.”
“If anyone tries to kidnap your son, then they will answer to me,” Atticus says solemnly, in total contrast to the suppressed mirth in his gaze.
I weave through the crowd, following hand-painted signs toward the public restrooms. The festival has grown more crowded as the afternoon progresses, families giving way to adult groups clearly here for the beer tent and live music.
The bathroom line is mercifully short. I take care of business, wash my hands and emerge back into the fading daylight with two of my five minutes still to spare.
The beer garden is maybe a hundred yards away. I can see the edge of the tent from here, hear the muffled thump of whatever band is currently performing. My people will be waiting.
I’m maybe twenty steps from rejoining them when a voice cuts through the crowd noise.
“Well, well. Look what we’ve found.”
My blood goes cold.
I turn slowly, already knowing who I’ll see.
Aaron Keenan leans against a nearby booth, arms crossed over his leather-vested chest. Two other bikers flank him—different faces than the ones from the bar, but the same patches, aggressive posture and predatory expressions.
Sinners. A trio of them, blocking my most direct path to where I need to go.
Aaron’s smile is all teeth and no warmth. His eyes rake over me with carnivorous intent.
“Phoenix Riviera,” he drawls. “Keep running into you. The universe must be trying to tell me something.”
“Hello, again.” I keep my voice neutral, casual, even as my heart rate kicks into overdrive. “Enjoying the festival?”
“Could be enjoying it more.” He pushes off from the booth, taking a step toward me. His companions mirror the movement, creating a loose triangle that I’m uncomfortably aware I’m at the center of. “You look like you could use some company.”
“I’m actually not here alone.” I edge sideways, trying to create space. “So if you’ll excuse me—”
“No need to rush off.” Another step closer. The other bikers have shifted apart on the path, further blocking the path. “Festival’s got hours left. We could show you a better time than wandering around looking at fish.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”
“Come on.” His voice drops to something meant to be seductive but lands somewhere closer to threatening. “Come have one drink with us. What’s the harm?”
“No, thank you.” I keep my tone light, keep the smile fixed on my face, even as every instinct screams at me to run. “Have a nice evening.”
I try to step around him.
His hand closes around my upper arm.
The grip isn’t painful—not yet—but it’s firm enough to stop me in my tracks. His fingers dig into the flesh just above my elbow, and suddenly I’m not standing in a festival crowd anymore. I’m seventeen years old, in a hotel room, with a hand on my arm and a door locking behind me—
No.
My body doesn’t respond to the command. I’ve gone rigid, frozen, my lungs refusing to draw breath. The crowd continues to flow around us, oblivious to the tableau playing out in their midst.
“Whoa, hey.” Aaron’s voice sounds far away. “Just trying to be friendly. No need to be a little bitch about it.”
Move, I tell myself. Say something. Do something.
But I can’t.
I’m paralyzed. Trapped. The same way I was trapped then, the same helplessness flooding through me, the same—
“That’s enough.”
I rip my arm free at the same moment a solid presence materializes at my back. My shoulder blades connect with a broad chest that smells like leather.
Dom.
“She’s not interested,” he says, voice calm despite the look of pure violence on his face. “Walk away.”
Aaron’s expression flickers through surprise, irritation and then something darker.
“Romano.” The name comes out flat. “Should’ve known you’d be sniffing around. What is it with you and getting in my business?”
“Your business has concluded. She declined your offer. Time for you to walk away.”
Judah appears on Aaron’s other side, having somehow circled around without the bikers noticing. His jaw set in a line that transforms his usually gentle features into something hard and uncompromising.
“Funny,” Aaron says, and his smile has gone ugly. “That omega doesn’t smell mated to me. Must be my mistake.”
“Also none of your business,” Judah replies, his voice a low rumble.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Aaron takes a step closer, squaring up. “Used to be, omegas knew not to parade themselves around like something good enough to eat unless they wanted someone to take a bite.”
Dom’s hand settles on my hip, drawing me slightly behind him. The touch is protective rather than possessive, creating a barrier between me and the bikers.
“Something for you to keep in mind,” Dom says quietly. “Rabid dogs get put down when they bite.”
The tension ratchets up another notch. Aaron’s companions have shifted closer, their postures broadcasting readiness for a fight. I can feel Dom’s muscles coiling beneath his shirt, ready to spring.
“We can finish what we started at the bar anytime,” Aaron growls. “Just say the word.”
“Happy to oblige.” Dom doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch, but somehow the threat radiating off him intensifies. “But not here. Not now. And not in front of her.”
I realize, with a start, that Mason and Atticus have appeared as well. They flank our little group, their presence completing a protective formation that boxes me in on all sides.
Aaron’s gaze sweeps over our assembled numbers. His lips thin.
Then, slowly, he takes a step back.
“Another time, then.” His eyes find mine, and the promise in them makes my skin crawl. “I’ll be looking forward to next time. See you then, Phoenix.”
I shiver in fearful reaction as Aaron melts into the crowd, the other bikers trailing behind him. Within moments, they’ve disappeared entirely, swallowed by the festival masses like they were never there at all.
The tension bleeds slowly out of the air.
“Are you okay?” Mason is at my side immediately, hands hovering without quite touching. “Phoenix, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “He didn’t—he just grabbed my arm. I’m fine.”
Dom’s hand is still on my hip. I realize I’m leaning into the contact, using his solid presence to anchor myself.
Atticus silently holds out Gerald Jr. and I hug the stuffed lobster to my chest, still shaken.
“Let’s get out of here,” Judah says quietly.
No one argues.