3. Nadia
Nadia
Asuffocating internal heat drags me out of a dead sleep.
I expect a tequila hangover to hit me, a pounding headache, and a dry mouth.
Instead, heat burns across my skin. Against my hypersensitive nerves, the expensive silk sheets feel like sandpaper.
Kicking the blanket off my body does nothing to provide cool air, and the yacht's air conditioning fails to stop the flush spreading across my chest. A thick, wet slick coats my underwear.
The friction of shifting my legs makes my breath hitch, leaving my core clenching hard and demanding release.
Grinding my teeth together, I try to rationalize the feeling. This is ridiculous. I'm just backed up. Spending hours grinding against people on the dance floor and drinking tequila left my nervous system wired, and now my body wants an outlet.
Staring at the dark ceiling, regret over brushing Margo off gnaws at me.
Going to Phera would have been the smart move.
Riding out this frustrating energy with some random guy at the club sounds like heaven right now.
Sleeping off a good time in a stranger's bed easily beats burning up alone in the dark.
Going months without hooking up is clearly backfiring, and my body is punishing me for acting like a nun.
The ache deepens, radiating down my thighs and settling low in my pelvis. Letting out a frustrated sound, I finally sit up.
Reaching over to the leather bench at the foot of the bed, I drag my overnight bag into my lap.
Unzipping the main compartment in the dark takes a second.
My fingers shove past my makeup bag and spare clothes until they brush cold, smooth silicone.
Pulling out my favorite vibrator brings a tiny spark of hope. It's a sleek, expensive little toy.
Tossing the bag aside, I lie back against the pillows and reach down and pull the soaked fabric of my underwear to the side.
The cool air hitting my wet core makes me shiver.
Pressing the power button sends a low, steady hum vibrating against my palm.
Closing my eyes, I guide the vibrating silicone against my clit.
A sharp gasp leaves my lips. The initial contact sends a jolt through my nervous system, but the relief doesn't last.
It feels hollow. Buzzing against my sensitive skin, the synthetic vibration doesn't scratch the itch at all.
The sensation is mechanical and empty. My hips rock up off the mattress, chasing a deeper friction that the toy can't provide.
Dialing the speed up to the highest setting makes the motor whine in the quiet room.
The vibration goes from feeling inadequate to feeling downright irritating, making my skin crawl. A piece of silicone isn't going to cut it. My instincts crave something else.
Flashes of the upper deck flood my mind. The strobe lights. The music. And that scent.
Taking a deep, involuntary breath in the dark room, my lungs expand.
I swear the smell is still hovering in the air.
Dark spiced rum burns the back of my throat, while rich, toasted coconut sweetens the air.
A deep, anchoring base of smoky vanilla wraps around the whole thing.
The memory of that Alpha scent makes my mouth water all over again, sending a fresh wave of slick flooding into my core.
The ache turns into a sharp, demanding need.
That scent is all I crave. The suffocating weight of an Alpha pressing me into the mattress sounds perfect right now. Teeth scraping over my neck, skin, sweat, and heat are the only things that will fix this.
Buzzing uselessly in my hand, the toy feels like a joke compared to what my instincts are screaming for.
Forcing my mind back to a random fantasy doesn't work.
Picturing some faceless guy from the club is impossible because the spiced rum and vanilla scent blocks everything else out. It totally hijacks my brain.
Letting out a huff, I snap the vibrator off. The sudden silence in the room feels deafening. Between my legs, the ache throbs a steady, mocking rhythm. I'm so horny I can't even think straight, and the one thing that usually fixes it just made it ten times worse.
Tossing the toy across the mattress, I drag my hands over my face, I rub my tired eyes.
The pitch-black room feels like a sauna, and the walls are closing in on me.
Suffocating in the darkness and my own frustrated heat isn't working.
Seeing the sun might remind me that I'm just hungover and touch-starved.
Leaning over the edge of the mattress, my fingers fumble around on the mahogany nightstand. Knocking over a glass of water is the price I pay before finding the heavy, metallic smart-remote that controls the suite.
Hitting the button for the blackout curtains.
A quiet mechanical whir sounds above me. Gliding open on their automated track, the heavy velvet curtains pull back. The early morning sunrise floods the master suite, painting the room in blinding shades of orange and gray. Pulling the silk sheet up to my chin, I squint against the harsh light.
The busy Manten marina should be right outside. Dockhands usually walk around the piers this early. A few lingering paparazzi are probably camped out on the concrete waiting for me to leave. I kicked everyone else off the boat last night.
Blinking a few times, the blur clears from my vision.
I freeze.
Through the huge floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, there's no concrete. City lights are absent. There isn't another boat in sight.
Nothing but endless, deep blue, rolling ocean stretches out to the horizon in every direction.
The horny fog in my brain vanishes. Adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a shot, spiking ice-cold panic in my chest and freezing the blood in my veins.
My jaw drops open. Staring at the horizon, I wait for the scenery to shift.
The boat should be turning around to reveal the coastline any second now.
Nothing happens. Just miles of water.
A terrifying realization hits me a moment later. Focusing my ears past the rush of my own heartbeat, I listen closely.
The yacht's engines are off.
A yacht this size relies on heavy, thrumming engines that vibrate through the floorboards when moving. Right now, the floor is still.
Throwing the silk sheets off my legs, I leap out of bed.
My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor while my heart hammers a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs.
I don't know the first thing about piloting a ninety-foot vessel.
If no one is up in the bridge, I'm royally fucked.
Glancing down, the black silk slip dress from last night still clings to my curves, but changing clothes takes too much time.
Finding the radio is the only thing that matters right now.
Bolting for the door, I yank the heavy handle down and throw it open. Stumbling into the lower hallway, the plush carpet absorbs the sound of my frantic bare feet.
"Hello?" My voice echoes down the corridor.
No one answers.
Running past the empty guest suites reveals wide-open doors and perfectly made beds. The crew cleans up before they leave. My dad gave them the weekend off so everyone could head onshore. The boat is supposed to be empty except for me.
Hitting the bottom of the stairs, panic claws at my throat.
We're adrift. Floating in the Atlantic ocean with zero crew and zero power is a nightmare.
Taking the stairs two at a time, my breath comes in shallow, terrified gasps.
Rounding the corner to the upper deck, I head straight for the main lounge.
Bounding barefoot upstairs, I burst into the glass-enclosed upper lounge and stumble to a halt in the middle of the doorway.
Standing near the panoramic windows, two men are already awake and on high alert.
Mikkel and Soren.
My dad's voice from last night echoes in my ears.
He mentioned their canceled flight and told me they were crashing here.
Panic over the empty boat made me forget they were even on board.
Now, my brain short-circuits. The sheer, overwhelming sight of them wipes the fear right out of my head.
Neither of them wears a shirt. Low-slung gray sweatpants rest right on their V-lines, and the dim morning light highlights every inch of them.
Mikkel sports a heavily muscled chest and thick arms. A striking dusting of silver cuts through his dark hair.
Standing a few feet away, Soren is just as tall and heavily muscled but leaner.
His pale blue eyes lock onto me with a piercing intensity, and the silver at his temples makes him look dangerous.
The raw masculinity and mature authority radiating off their bodies hits me like a freight train. My knees buckle a fraction of an inch, and a heavy flush rushes up my neck.
Then the scent hits me.
It strikes a hundred times harder than it did on the crowded party deck. Acting like a vacuum, the enclosed space of the lounge concentrates the smell.
Dark spiced rum. Toasted coconut. Rich, smoky vanilla.
Wrapping around my senses, the aroma sinks deep into my lungs.
It's them. The phantom scent from last night belongs to these two men.
Clicking into place with a terrifying certainty, the realization makes my slick core clench so hard it aches.
My instincts scream at me to drop to my knees and present myself to them.
They are the scent I've been chasing in my sleep.
No. No fucking way.
Watching my friends find their perfect matches ends with them getting swept off their feet by billionaire Alphas. Accepting a long time ago that my odds of finding a true scent-match were garbage means this can't be real.
Even if it's real, the situation is a disaster.
These men are my dad's best friends. Serving as his closest business partners, they've known me since I was fifteen. At forty-five years old, they probably view me as a huge liability.
Becoming hyper-aware of my appearance makes my stomach drop. The expensive slip dress is wrinkled and twisted around my waist, the slit riding up past my hip to expose my bare thigh. Staring at their bare chests like a starving animal is humiliating.
Soren flares his nostrils. He takes a sudden, deep breath, his chest expanding as he pulls the air in. Mikkel inhales just as deeply right next to him. Their jaws lock tight. Their eyes darken, tracking my messy state.
A fresh wave of heat floods my cheeks. I realize exactly what they smell. The enclosed room trapped my heavy, desperate Omega scent the second I walked in. They know I'm sliding into a Heat.
I refuse to do this. Being the pathetic Omega losing her mind over her father's friends isn't an option.
Shoving my instincts into a mental box, I slam the lid shut and lock the intense reaction down.
Crossing my arms over my chest, my fingers dig into my elbows to keep my hands from shaking.
Shifting my weight helps adjust the high slit of my dress to cover a fraction more skin.
Tearing my gaze away from their V-lines takes an intense amount of willpower, but I manage to meet Mikkel's dark eyes.
Pushing past the thick, suffocating scent of rum, coconut, and vanilla, I force myself to focus on the emergency at hand.
"Why are we in the middle of the ocean?"