2. Mikkel
Mikkel
The muffled thumping bass from the main deck vibrates through the soles of my Italian leather shoes.
I take a slow sip of my scotch. It's a twenty-five-year-old Macallan. The amber liquid burns a smooth path down my throat and takes the edge off the travel exhaustion. I sit back in the plush leather armchair and stare out the panoramic glass windows of the yacht’s upper lounge.
Down below, the stragglers of the birthday party are still grinding against each other under neon strobe lights. It looks exhausting.
Soren sits in the matching armchair across from me.
He swirls the ice in his crystal glass and watches the chaotic crowd with a bored expression.
We're a two-man Alpha pack. We've been best friends and business partners for two decades.
We share real estate empires, bank accounts, and enough history that we hardly need words to communicate.
Right now, we're both annoyed.
Our flight got canceled three hours ago thanks to a storm system moving up the East Coast. Nadia’s father, Marcus, signed the final acquisition papers for our new commercial high-rises and bailed an hour later.
He told us to crash in the VIP suites for the night rather than book a hotel.
Being trapped on a boat with fifty drunken twenty-somethings was never on tonight's agenda, but it beats a sterile airport bed.
Soren runs a large hand through his dark hair.
The silver strands at his temples catch the dim light of the lounge.
He's forty-five, same as me. We spend two hours in the gym every morning to maintain the muscle mass required to command a boardroom.
We're fit. We're wealthy. But nights like this remind me we aren't young anymore.
"The music is giving me a fucking migraine," Soren grumbles. He takes a long drink of his scotch and sets the glass on the mahogany table.
"They have to shut it down soon." I check my Rolex. "The marina has noise ordinances. Even Marcus pays fines when they breach the cutoff time."
Soren snorts. "Marcus doesn't care about fines." His pale blue eyes track a group of women laughing near the open bar on the lower deck. Then his gaze shifts. He looks at me. "You saw her, right?"
He doesn't need to clarify. I know who he means.
"I saw her." I finish my scotch and pour another two fingers from the decanter on the table.
Nadia.
She's turning twenty-eight. We've known her since she was fifteen, and the last time we saw her in person, she was eighteen.
Back then, we had zero interest in her. She was just our business partner's kid.
But she isn't eighteen anymore. Tonight, she wore a custom black silk dress with a slit cut high up her thigh.
Her dark skin glowed under the lights. She commanded the attention of every single person on that deck. She looked fucking stunning.
My Alpha instincts recognized her presence the second she walked onto the boat.
The primal, possessive part of my brain took one look at her curves and her glossy black bob and flared to life.
Soren felt it too. I saw his jaw lock hard and heard the sharp intake of his breath when she laughed at a joke some crypto billionaire told her.
"She grew up," Soren's voice is low. A rough rumble deep in his chest gives away his thoughts.
"Drop it." I keep my voice hard. I shut the conversation down before it starts. "She's twenty-eight. She's our business partner's daughter. We aren't going there, Soren."
He leans back and stretches his long legs out in front of him. "I know. I have eyes, Mikkel. I can appreciate the view without crossing a line. She's untouchable."
"Good." I take another sip. "We're just tired. The yacht is packed with unbonded Omegas projecting their slick little pheromones into the air. Our biology is reacting to the environment. It means nothing."
Soren nods. He accepts the logic. We're mature Alphas.
We don't act on impulse. We control our instincts, build our wealth, and stick to the plan.
Nadia is a gorgeous distraction, but she's off-limits.
She probably views us as ancient relics of her father's generation, anyway.
The idea stings a little, but it's the truth.
I look out the glass window again. The crowd is thinning out. The music shifts to a slower track. I just want this night to end so I can get some goddamn sleep.
The DJ finally cuts the music. The silence is a relief.
Through the glass, I watch the remaining party guests shuffle down the gangway and onto the docks.
The yacht crew moves in right behind them.
They sweep empty glasses off tables and wipe down the leather cabanas.
Within twenty minutes, the deck is clear.
The crew finishes their duties and heads onshore for the night. The boat goes dead silent.
I loosen my silk tie and unbutton the top of my dress shirt. The hum of the yacht's generator is the only sound left.
Then a scent drifts through the overhead AC vents.
It hits me like a punch to the gut. It's intoxicating. Rich, wild honey mixed with the sweetness of crushed dark cherries and warm amber. My jaw locks hard. A deep, involuntary rumble rips out of my throat before I can stop it.
Soren goes rigid in his chair. His chest heaves. He inhales a massive breath, chasing the scent. "Fuck. What is that?"
"An Omega." I grip the armrests of my chair.
My knuckles turn white. My cock hardens, a heavy, unwanted ache settling low in my stomach.
My instincts demand I get up and find the source.
I force myself to stay seated. I grind my teeth together.
"A guest. They must have left a lingering scent trail in the hallways. "
Soren exhales a harsh breath. He rubs a hand hard over his face. "It smells like a perfect match."
"The guest is gone." I grab my glass and down the scotch in one swallow. The alcohol burns, but it does nothing to clear my head. The scent is fading, sucked away by the ventilation system, but the damage is done. My blood is on fire.
The phantom scent forces the elephant in the room out into the open.
I look at Soren. He looks exhausted. We both are.
"We're forty-five years old." I let out a rough breath. "We've chased this biological fairy tale for two decades. We've waited for the magic scent-match. The soulmate bullshit. We have nothing to show for it but empty luxury penthouses and a corporate empire with no heirs."
Soren picks up the decanter and pours himself another drink.
He doesn't argue. He knows I'm right. We've spent our entire adult lives working and waiting.
We go to the upscale Gala events. We mingle with the high-society Omegas.
We search for the one scent that clicks perfectly with us, and we always come up empty.
"I'm tired of an empty bed." Soren stares at the amber liquid in his glass. "I want a family. I want kids. I want a legacy to leave all this shit to when I die."
"Then we stop waiting." I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. I meet his gaze. "We get back to New York and we hire a broker. A discrete one. We stop looking for a love match and we look for a willing partner."
Soren raises an eyebrow. "An arranged bond?"
"A business transaction." I keep my voice flat.
"We're billionaires, Soren. There are plenty of Omegas out there who want security, luxury, and two stable Alphas to protect them.
We find one who is compatible on paper. We write up a contract.
We treat them well, we give them the world, and they give us kids. We settle down."
Soren thinks about it. He takes a slow sip of his scotch. The wild honey and cherry scent is gone from the air now, leaving behind the stale smell of expensive cigars and cleaning chemicals. The loss of that intoxicating smell makes my chest ache, but it hardens my resolve. I'm done chasing ghosts.
Soren nods. "Okay. We do it. We get back to the city and we make the calls. No more waiting for a miracle."
A heavy wave of resignation settles over me. It's a depressing conversation. We're giving up on the romantic dream every Alpha grows up with. We're settling for a practical reality. But it's the smart move. We're businessmen. We know when to cut our losses and pivot to a new strategy.
I stand up. My muscles ache from the travel and the tension. "I'm going to bed. We have an early flight to catch."
Soren finishes his drink and stands up with me. "Goodnight, brother."
We leave the upper lounge and walk down the plush carpeted stairs to the VIP suites. The yacht is silent and empty. We head into separate guest cabins. I strip down to my boxers, crash into the king-sized bed, and stare at the ceiling until exhaustion drags me under.
My eyes snap open.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 5:12 AM. The sun is just starting to bleed gray light through the cabin windows. My internal clock refuses to let me sleep in, but it isn't the time that woke me up.
Something is wrong.
I lie flat on my back and listen. The low hum of the yacht's generator is steady. The air conditioning pushes a cool breeze across my chest. But the movement of the boat is wrong. A docked yacht has a tight, rhythmic bump. It nudges against the rubber fenders on the pier and settles.
This is a deep, heavy roll. The bow dips low and rises on a long, slow swell.
We're on the open ocean.
I throw the blankets off and swing my legs out of bed. I grab a pair of gray sweatpants out of my unzipped travel bag and pull them on. My pulse kicks up. I step out of the cabin and into the hallway.
Soren's door opens a second later. He steps out wearing dark sleep pants. His chest is bare. His blue eyes are sharp and alert.
We share a look and head straight for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. We cross the empty, spotless main deck, and head straight up to the glass-enclosed upper lounge where we drank scotch a few hours ago.
I walk up to the panoramic windows and look out.
The Manten skyline is gone.. There are no other boats. There is nothing but miles of endless, rolling blue water in every direction.
Soren crosses his arms. "What the fuck?"
"The crew left last night." I scan the horizon. There is no land in sight. The water is a deep, dark indigo. "No one was scheduled to take the boat out. Marcus gave the crew the weekend off."
A cold spike of adrenaline hits my blood. We're adrift. A ninety-foot luxury yacht floating in the Atlantic with no captain.
Soren clenches his jaw. "Someone untied the lines. Or the storm surge pulled the cleats out of the dock and the outgoing tide dragged us out."
"We need to get to the bridge." I turn away from the window. "We need to check the GPS coordinates and get on the radio. The Coast Guard can tow us back."
We head for the door. Just as I reach for the handle, a sound stops me dead in my tracks.
Footsteps.
Bare feet slapping against the teakwood stairs leading up from the master suite.
Soren freezes. His nostrils flare. I smell it a second later.
The rich, intoxicating wave of wild honey, dark crushed cherries, and warm amber floods the stairwell.
It hits my senses with the force of a freight train.
My muscles lock tight. A deep, possessive rumble rips from my chest. The phantom scent from last night wasn't a random guest who left.
The footsteps stumble.
Nadia appears in the doorway of the upper lounge.
She looks like a beautiful disaster. Her custom silk dress is wrinkled and twisted around her waist. She's barefoot. Her winged black eyeliner is smeared down her cheeks. Her dark hair is a messy rat's nest. She grips the doorframe to keep her balance.
She blinks at us. Her dark eyes are wide and confused as hell. She takes a shallow, panting breath.
"Why is the boat moving?"
Soren and I stare at her. We're stranded in the middle of the ocean. With Marcus's untouchable daughter. And she smells like a perfect scent-match slipping straight into a Heat.
Well. Shit.