Chapter Seven - Isabella
The worst of the hurricane has finally passed, leaving behind a heavy, relentless rain that drums steadily against the roof.
The wind has died down to a moaning gust rather than the freight-train roar of the night before, but the storm still holds us in its grip.
Water sheets off the elevated lodge in constant rivers, and the dense pinelands beyond the windows churn with angry, muddy swells.
Inside, the battery-operated lanterns continue their soft, steady glow, though one has begun to dim as its power fades.
The air feels thick with humidity and the lingering scent of damp wood and pine.
I wake slowly, warm and cocooned against a solid wall of muscle.
Jax’s arm is draped heavily across my waist, his breathing deep and even beneath my cheek.
Sometime in the night, I had curled fully into him, my leg tangled with his, the oversized S&S hoodie riding up around my thighs.
Heat floods my face as the memory of how we ended up here rushes back—the long hours working on the ledger, the quiet confessions, the way his fingers had brushed my hair, the undeniable pull that made him lie down “just for a minute.” He had stayed, and I had slept better than I had in a long time.
I shift carefully, not wanting to wake him yet, but his arm tightens instinctively, pulling me closer. A low, sleepy rumble vibrates through his chest. “Bee.”
The nickname, spoken in that rough morning voice, sends a shiver through me.
I tilt my head up and find his eyes already open, watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
The light plays across the hard planes of his face, highlighting the stubble along his jaw and the faint lines of exhaustion mixed with something warmer.
“Morning,” I whisper, suddenly very aware of how intimately we are tangled. “The storm sounds quieter.”
He listens for a moment, then nods once. “Wind’s dropped. Rain’s still heavy, but the worst has passed. I need to do a perimeter sweep. Stay inside and keep the door locked.”
I sit up, pushing my hair back. “I can help—”
“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You stay inside. I’ll be quick.”
He gives me that familiar stoic look, but there is heat banked in his eyes.
I nod reluctantly and watch as he dresses in full foul-weather gear, dark tactical layers designed for rough conditions.
He looks every inch the dangerous ex-SEAL, broad shoulders filling the jacket, movements efficient and powerful.
Once he steps outside, I lock the heavy door behind him and move to the kitchen table.
I power up my laptop, the battery still holding enough charge.
The gala security footage is grainy, but I know every angle of that exhibit.
I fast-forward to the moments before the lights went out, then slow it down frame by frame.
“Look here,” I mutter to myself, zooming in on the edge of the screen.
A shadow lingers near the power junction box well before the flicker.
That wasn’t random. The way the lead thief moved, he knew exactly where the centerpiece was.
No hesitation. They had inside information or prior reconnaissance.
I keep watching, heart beating faster as I spot another detail: one of the thieves glancing toward a specific guest right before the blackout. Someone who had been standing near the exhibit earlier, acting casual. My curator's eye catches what others might miss, the subtle coordination.
The side door opens with a rush of wind and rain. Jax steps back inside, soaked to the bone. Water streams off his gear, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with controlled breaths, rain dripping from his hair and running down the hard lines of his face.
“Perimeter is clear for now,” he says, already stripping off the outer jacket. “No fresh tracks, but the rain would have washed away anything useful.”
“I found something,” I say quickly, turning the laptop toward him. “Come look.”
He crosses the room, leaving wet footprints, and leans over my shoulder. His chest brushes my back, warm and solid despite the cold rain soaking his clothes. His breath fans across my neck as he studies the screen.
“Good catch,” he murmurs, voice low. “That shadow by the junction box proves it was planned.”
The close call with the storm and the fresh evidence send adrenaline buzzing through my veins.
I watch as Jax starts peeling off the rest of his wet gear.
The black tactical shirt clings to his torso like a second skin, outlining every ridge of muscle.
Without thinking, I reach for the hem, helping him pull the soaked fabric upward.
My hands tremble slightly as they brush his bare skin, taut with hard-earned muscle.
Old scars crisscross his chest and abdomen.
My fingers trace one particularly raised line near his ribs, lingering longer than necessary.
He stills under my touch, breath catching.
The air between us thickens, charged with leftover adrenaline and something far deeper.
Water droplets run down his bare chest, catching the lantern light.
I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the way his eyes darken as they lock onto mine.
“Bee…” His voice is rough, strained. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I whisper, hands sliding higher to push the shirt completely off his shoulders.
The fabric drops to the floor with a wet slap.
My palms rest flat against his chest now, feeling the strong, steady thud of his heart beneath my fingers.
It races almost as fast as mine. The scars tell stories of survival and loss, but right now all I feel is the living, breathing man in front of me.
His hands come up to cover mine, large and calloused, holding them against his skin.
The contact sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Rain continues to drum on the roof, but inside the lodge, the only storm that matters is the one building between us.
His restraint is cracking, I can see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his thumbs stroke over my knuckles, in the way his gaze drops to my mouth again and lingers.
“You’re soaked too,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. One hand lifts to brush a damp strand of hair from my cheek, his touch gentle despite the raw power in his frame. “We should get you dry.”
But neither of us moves away. The evidence on the laptop screen, the close call with the storm, and the intimate act of helping him strip the wet gear have stripped away another layer of the walls between us.
Jax’s forehead rests against mine, breaths mingling in the lantern-lit space. “This is dangerous, Bee.”
“I know,” I breathe, my fingers curling slightly against his skin. “But I’m tired of fighting it.”