Chapter 4
Helena
Seamuse Village is a slip of land at the edge of blue, poised between the cold English Channel and the kind of wild hills that could swallow a careless soul.
It’s the kind of place people come to when their lives need pressing between the pages of a storybook, or so the travel blogs say, but even stepping out of the car, I can tell most of the tourists are only passing through.
I breathe in the salt and the promise of freedom. And the clean, mineral tang of flint of Zane Hawke, who stands solid at my elbow, our bags already gathered.
“Your father’s assistant said the rental is up here.
” Zane gestures toward the slope, his voice pitched for my ears alone.
I think he’s afraid every shopfront window and idle stranger might be listening.
His hand hovers at the small of my back, not quite touching. I refuse to let myself lean into it.
But I want to.
The intensity of that want now that Zane and I are free of the scrutinizing eyes of everyone at my family’s manor is so strong, it does far more than take me by surprise.
It seizes me wholly. Especially since I’m not used to scenting Zane.
That realization hits harder than his scent did.
Zane was on suppressants. I’ve known this since the first time I realized he was an alpha. I’ve scented him once more. Knew we were scent-matches, which has been a hell to ignore.
But now we’re both off those suppressants.
And alone in Cornwall.
I swallow hard and force my gaze elsewhere on the street.
The street is made of cobbles and beach grass, a ribbon of shops and summer bunting strung overhead, each flag faded to pastel by a hundred seasons. There are bakeries with bread displayed in lopsided pyramids, and a newsagent store with postcards out front.
I steal a glance at Zane, half-expecting him to be bored or irritable, but he’s scanning the horizon, jaw set, radiating the same quiet vigilance he always does.
His black suit is the only one for twenty kilometers, but somehow, it doesn’t look out of place on him, not even with the salt-wind blasting his hair out of place.
His gaze catches mine and he quirks an eyebrow. A fraction of a smile graces his lips.
I look away first.
Our flat is a block up from the main drag, set in a row of whitewashed stone houses with blue trim and window boxes spilling nasturtiums. There’s a sign in the entryway—‘Sandpiper Lettings’—and a key left in the lock, just as promised.
Zane shoulders the door open, his frame so broad, he almost has to duck.
The scent of lemon polish drifts out into the hall.
I let Zane take the lead. It’s his job, after all.
The flat is small, just two bedrooms with a kitchen sporting mismatched plates in the open shelving, a living room with a chintz loveseat and a threadbare rug.
Sunlight washes every surface through a set of large windows overlooking the sea in the distance.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a space so inviting that’s also so definitively not my family’s.
“Which room do you want?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He sets my suitcase in the larger bedroom, the one that faces the water. “This one has the best sight lines. And it locks from the inside. So it’s yours.”
I don’t let myself sigh. “Ever the sentinel. You know, I don’t think anyone’s going to attack or kidnap me here. My father overreacts. I’m not that important, and neither is my family.”
Zane doesn’t answer. He just stands with his hands behind his back, waiting for me to signal that it’s all right for him to leave. Regardless of the scent-match between us, Zane is my bodyguard and he will never stop taking that seriously. I’m only a charge, an obligation.
A puzzle box with a royal crest somewhere on the inside.
Sometimes I really wish we could try to be more.
“Go on,” I say, flicking my fingers at him. “I can unpack myself.”
He hesitates, then nods, closing the door behind him with a click. Only then do I let my shoulders sag. I flop onto the bed, arms outstretched and eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere below, a gull yelps in triumph, probably at another tourist’s expense. My face splits into a grin.
I unpack, hanging my things in the wardrobe and opening the window to let the salty and briny air inside. When I finally go back out, Zane is in the kitchen, knife in one hand while he examines a fruit basket like it were a bomb he’s been asked to disarm.
He doesn’t look up. “Apples or bananas?”
I lean against the counter. “Neither.” I snag an orange and then peel it in a spiral. “What’s the plan?”
He wipes the knife clean and then slides it back into the block. His eyes flick up to meet mine. “You’re free to do what you like, within reason.”
“‘Within reason.’” I savor the words, rolling them over my tongue like candy. “Define ‘reason.’”
He shrugs. The motion is almost unguarded. “No running off with any strange alphas. No wild parties. Stay where I can see you.”
“Do you have to see me every minute?”
He straightens, not rising to the bait. “You’re an omega, Helena, and one of high society at that. You know the rules.”
“I’m also a fully grown adult with a graduate degree and a spotless record of public conduct.”
“That’s not what people remember.”
His voice is soft, but the words land with their usual precision.
I feel the old frustration building, the urge to rebel just for the sake of it.
But then I catch the faint furrow between his brows, and the way his hands flex at his sides, and I realize—he’s as trapped by this arrangement and our untouchable scent match as I am.
Zane always has been.
Which is why we’ve thus far ignored the scent-match between us.
“Fine.” I toss the orange peel into the bin. “Let’s go see the village. I want to smell the air.”
But first I’m putting on a bathing suit under this dress so I can jump right into the sea and forget everything else.
The beach is a perfect crescent, framed by dunes on one side and the stone curve of the old pier on the other. Wind whips off the water. It brings with it gull cries and the stinging perfume of kelp.
I let Zane walk a step behind me, pretending I don’t know he’s shadowing my every move. It’s easier, somehow, to forget we’re not here by accident, to pretend that he’s a fellow tourist or an exiled prince in need of a holiday. Not everything I desire wrapped in an untouchable force.
The boardwalk is quiet but not empty. At the far end, a trio of kids is building a sand fortress with plastic buckets, shrieking whenever the surf threatens their ramparts.
There’s an old woman walking her dog, and a couple—hands clasped, heads bent together—tracing slow arcs along the tideline.
Everything here moves at half-speed, like the world itself is taking a breath.
I drift toward the little café on the corner, its patio shaded by a battered, blue awning. There are three tables out front with only one of them occupied. The chalkboard sign advertises “Famous Cornish Cream Teas” and something called a “mackerel melt.”
I grin and nudge Zane. “Pick your poison.”
He sniffs, nose wrinkling at the brine. “I’ll pass on the fish.”
“Coward.” I claim a seat facing the water.
He takes the chair beside me and keeps his back to the wall, his eyes flicking from me to the street and back. His vigilance should annoy me, but there’s something comforting about it, too. Like a warm coat you hate but never quite manage to outgrow.
The barista—a kid barely old enough to drive, with hair the color of burnt caramel—brings a menu and flashes me a sunny, not-quite-flirtatious smile. I order a croissant and a coffee. Zane settles for water, and the barista scurries away.
I watch him go, then turn to Zane, arms folded on the table. “Is it always like this here? So peaceful?”
He follows my gaze out to the water. “Sometimes the storms come in so heavy, the whole village shakes. Power cuts, roads washed out, gulls clinging to anything that won’t blow away. But in early summer, yeah. It’s like this.” He glances at me sidelong. “You’ll hate it after a week.”
I smile. “Bet I won’t.”
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “What did you expect, Helena? Monaco? St. Moritz? White-glove galas every night?”
“I expected—” I pause, unsure how to finish. Not Monaco, exactly, but not this, either. Not exile at the edge of the map, surrounded by a chaperone and my own thoughts.
“I expected to be bored,” I settle on, “but I think I might be glad to be bored for once.”
He grunts, but his eyes soften. “You’re not very good at relaxing.”
“Says the man who’s on red alert at a beachfront café.” I take a sip of the coffee when it arrives, surprised at its depth. “Why do you do it?”
He arches a brow. “Do what?”
“All this.” I wave my hand at him, at the world. “The job, the constant alertness even here.”
He’s quiet as he thinks. He keeps his eyes on the horizon. When he answers, his voice is lower. “Because if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. Or your father would never forgive me. Take your pick.”
I study him, trying to read the lines of his face, the way his mouth always hovers on the edge of a frown. “Did you grow up here?”
He nods. “My family’s from the next village over. But I spent all my summers here, working odd jobs. Surfing when I could and when the waves were right.”
“Do you surf?” The image is so at odds with the stiff-collared sentinel in front of me that I can’t help but laugh.
He shrugs, the ghost of a smile breaking through. “Everyone does here. It’s like a rite of passage. You learn to swim before you can walk.”
“I’d pay good money to see that.” I can picture it: Zane young and sunburned, laughing as the waves tumble him under.
“Maybe you will.” Something electric passes between us in that suggestion. Something old and forbidden.
I drop my gaze. “What about you? Did you ever want to come back after moving to the city?”
“Sometimes.” His thumb rubs at the rim of his water glass. “But this place always pulls you back. It’s steady. Even when the world isn’t.”
We sit in silence for a while, watching the waves inch closer to the sea wall. The sun is climbing now, pulling more people out of their beds and onto the sand. I notice the old woman has joined the kids, her dog barking at their sandcastle as if to defend it from invasion.
The barista returns with my croissant, flaky and still steaming.
I break off a corner and chew thoughtfully, savoring the butter and the way it almost melts on my tongue. “This is perfect. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” I eat another piece, then another, and the tension between us thins, replaced by something warmer, easier. I let myself imagine, for even just a moment, that this is all it is: a day at the beach, sun and salt and possibility.
But not the possibility of this finally turning into something more with Zane.
That would be too wild, even for a summer fling.
Right?
I lean back, face tilted to the sky. “What do you think the summer will bring?”
Zane is quiet, thinking it over. Then, softly, he says, “Change.”
Before I can ask him to elaborate, a blur of white wings drops from the sky and snatches the rest of my croissant right out of my hand.
I yelp, half in shock and half in outrage, as the gull lands a few feet away and proceeds to tear my breakfast to shreds.
Zane bursts out laughing, the most unguarded I’ve ever seen him.
I glare at him, but it only makes him laugh harder.
“Welcome to Seamuse Village,” he says, grinning.
I can’t help it—I start to laugh, too, the sound rolling out of me in bright, messy waves.
The gull cocks its head. Does it approve of the joke? It then takes off into the blue, crumbs trailing in its wake.
Quite a welcome.