Chapter 7
Helena
The sea across the lane pounds against the shore, far stronger than it did this morning. Already since our arrival early today, Seamuse has shown its full extent of weather. Who could’ve predicted that the beautiful sunshine of morning would turn into this storm by mid-afternoon?
My body aches for movement. A restlessness that sticks in deep and twists, coiling until I nearly start pacing the room. But I don’t. I’m not giving Zane more reasons to worry.
Exhaustion still pulls on my body from trying to fight the riptide on my own. Zane has scarcely left my side in the hours since. I’ve asked if we should just head to the hospital if he’s so concerned, but I get the feeling he’d be even more oppressively protective there.
I balance my teacup on my knee and lean my forehead against the rain-splattered glass. The salt air is everywhere here. I’ve been in Seamuse for only a handful of ours and have come to learn this intimately, and not just from nearly drowning.
Not sure this is the “relaxing vacation” I’d had in mind to sort out my life.
Right now, I’m just glad to still have said life.
Across the sitting room, Zane pretends to inspect the bookshelf, but his attention is fixed on me.
Energy zips through the air between us. A tension that’s far more than bodyguard and nobility, and absolutely driven by how strong Zane’s scent has flared since the riptide incident.
It makes me want to claw my way over to him and kiss him from head to toe.
Which is beyond indecent, Helena. Not that self-scolding has ever stopped anyone before.
Zane’s done well to keep any alpha instincts under wraps the same way I’ve managed to not fall to my inner omega and climb him like a tree.
But the second we stepped foot in Seamuse, it was like all of that changed.
There’s no one here to keep us in line. If either of us wanted to act on the scent-match between us, this was the time.
Especially now that there’s another alpha who’s also scent-matched. Lucas.
I don’t know what to make of that. Or if Zane would want to form a full pack.
Or if Zane even wants to bond with me.
Do we have to heed scent-matches at all?
Zane shifts. His movement draws me from my thoughts. His gaze falls to my empty teacup. He’s already halfway to the kettle when he asks, “Another?”
“I’ll burst,” I say, but I hand over my empty cup, anyway.
He’s put on a crisp, pale-blue shirt that makes him look more like a naval officer than a bodyguard. He fits here in Seamuse, in a way I don’t. Less buttoned, less guarded, even with me to chaperone.
Zane refills the kettle. “You could use the hydration.”
I chuckle dryly. “I think I’ve gotten enough hydration for today.”
Zane doesn’t share the humor. “You need more.”
The silent but heavy tension between us is swiftly reaching breaking point.
I swallow down what’s left of my restraint and meet his eyes. “Zane, I’m not broken. Or fragile.”
Zane’s flint-scented pheromones flood my nostrils in ways nearly impossible to ignore. I must have built up some kind of immunity over the years. But every moment that seems passable quickly devolves the moment Zane comes closer.
“No, you’re not.” His voice is low, nearly a whisper. Like he can barely stand to admit it.
“I didn’t drown.” I want to reach out and touch a hand to his arm. Would it help drive home my argument? But actually touching Zane outside of the professional bounds we’ve decided to keep within feels like too much.
Zane slowly shakes his head. “No, you didn’t.”
Still, his hands curl tight and his shoulders remain tense.
A slow, warm smile creeps across my face. “So please relax. You did nothing wrong.”
Zane releases a snarl—one I can clearly tell is meant for himself, not me. “I didn’t get to you first.”
I level him with a stare. “Is that what this is about? That the lifeguard—whose job is to save drowning people—saved me first?”
“I’m your bodyguard, Helena.”
Now I reach out to touch him. I place my hands on his muscular forearms. “And you do your job well. We’re in Seamuse, Zane, at your suggestion.
A place with little danger. I should’ve paid attention to where I was swimming.
And when I didn’t, a lifeguard saved me. That’s their job. You did yours, too.”
Zane shifts one arm so he’s able to place a hand on the back of mine. His fingers are warm and reassuring despite the slight tremble in them. Of all the times Zane has touched me—innocent hugs and hands on my arm and back—this is the least professional.
And it’s divine.
Our pheromones mix together. His flint scent intensifies even with the smallest skin-to-skin contact.
Zane’s breath hitches. “Helena…”
I bite my lip but don’t pull my hand away. “I know.”
Zane doesn’t pull his hand away, either. But he does wrap his fingers tighter around mine. “Please don’t do that again.”
The tension inside me uncoils. Zane’s never asked me for anything. So I can give him this. “No more swimming in choppy water or into riptides, I promise.”
Zane’s shoulders relax. “Thank you.” Finally, he pulls his hand back onto his lap. “I will try to relax.”
I smile again and try to hide the fact that I’m memorizing the way his hands felt on mine. “Good. This should be your holiday, too.”
He nods and then clears his throat. “We should explore the town. I can show you some of my favorite spots.”
I glance toward the window where raindrops have begun gently falling down. “That sounds perfect. I’ll grab our rain jackets.”
And just like that, we’re back to normal.
Zane being my bodyguard. And the scent-match between us? Still mostly ignored.
Seamuse is more postcard than real place, even in a gentle rain.
Inside the downtown area stands rows of pastel storefronts with colorful decorative bunting strung overhead.
The main street dips and loops toward the harbor.
Shops for books, gifts, kitchen trinkets, clothes, and more all fill the space and welcome in customers from all over.
Zane and I bounce in and out of all the various stores just window shopping.
Eventually, the rain stops drizzling and turns into a sudden vertical sheet pounding the old cobblestone streets. Zane doesn’t hesitate, just grabs my wrist and tugs me under the overhang of a closed gelato shop. His hand is warm and careful, never tight.
I laugh. “We’re gonna need somewhere more spacious until this passes.” I wouldn’t mind being stuck this close to Zane, especially since it feels like something in our friendship has shifted, but I don’t know how he feels about it.
Zane’s gaze darts across the street. He nods. “There.”
I follow his line of sight. A blue awning across the street reads, “The Lobster Pot,” with a chalkboard promising “Chips & chat, rain or shine!”
Cold rain soaks my hair as we make a dash for it. Zane keeps his arm around my shoulders like a shield.
Inside, it’s warm and crowded. Typical seaside town clutter marks the walls. Things like knotted ropes and oars on the walls, along with black-and-white photos of fishermen. The place smells of malt vinegar and wet wool. But it’s homey.
The woman behind the counter waves us to a table. “You two look like drowned otters!”
We follow.
She plunks down menus. Zane orders fish and chips for both. Honestly, nothing at this moment sounds better.
We peel off our soaking-wet raincoats. I press napkins to my hair and eventually get it all to a manageable level. Zane watches with an amused smirk.
The food comes. We eat in silence at first. The cod is fresh and the batter light. It is, as always, too much for me. Zane waits until I’ve picked at my plate, then slides his leftovers to mine without comment. His fingers brush mine. His knuckles are still pink from the cold.
The rain shows no signs of stopping. By the time we finish, the street is a river.
“We’ll make a run for it,” Zane says. “At least it’s not that far.”
I roll my eyes. “Back to the storm shelter, then.”
He grins, and I realize I’ve never seen him look so unburdened. “After you, Helena.”
We sprint the half-mile to the cottage. The cold gets everywhere—between my toes, down the neck of my jumper. I’m gasping when we reach the porch. Zane’s hair is plastered to his forehead, which makes him look softer. It suits him well.
Inside, we track puddles across the kitchen tiles. Zane tows me to the radiator and peels off my coat, then his. I want to collapse, but he’s already moving, setting kettles and fetching towels with military precision.
“I can manage,” I say, but he ignores me.
He wraps a towel around my shoulders with gentle hands. “You’ll get sick.”
“Not unless you’re harboring germs.” I attempt the joke, but I’m not sure it hits. I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I should be funny around Zane instead of just being myself.
Nerves, Helena. Duh. But why only now?
Zane doesn’t laugh. His attention is fiercely locked on me. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I am.”
“I could call—”
I put a finger to his lips, shocking us both. “Don’t. I swear, I’m fine.”
His lips are warm under my touch. He looks at me, searching for something. Intent? Permission? I don’t know.
He steps back, letting the air settle.
The thunder is closer now. Rain pelts the windows louder than before.
Then… I hear it before I see it—a drip, drip, followed by a sharp splatter as water pools on the floorboards in the sitting room.
Zane investigates and then curses loudly upon reaching his discovery. “A leak.”
He drags a chair beneath the worst spot and examines the ceiling. “This wasn’t on the inspection.”
“It’s an old house,” I say, not sure why I’m defending it.
Zane shakes his head and draws out his phone. Before I know it, he’s on the phone to the rental company. I mop up water with towels, the rain beating a rhythm overhead.
Zane hangs up and returns to the kitchen. “They’ve got one other place open, up the road. We can pack up and head over now.”