4. Soren
Soren
Nadia stands frozen in the doorway of the upper lounge.
She just asked why we're in the middle of the ocean.
My brain struggles to process the question because the sight of her derails my focus.
She looks like a beautiful, chaotic mess.
Her designer black slip dress is wrinkled and twisted.
The fabric rides high up her hip to expose her bare thigh.
Smudged black eyeliner wings trail down her deep brown skin from sleeping in her makeup. Her dark hair is a tangled rat's nest.
She looks stunning. The raw, vulnerable state of her sends a hard jolt straight to my dick.
My nostrils flare. I catch the rich scent of wild honey, crushed dark cherries, and warm amber pouring off her.
A deeper, heavy musk of frustrated arousal undercuts the sweetness.
Any experienced man knows exactly what that sharp tang means.
The realization hits my senses and makes my jaw lock tight.
It takes a huge amount of willpower to shove the intense reaction down.
Staring at our business partner's daughter like a starving animal isn't an option.
Survival has to come first. We're stranded.
Mikkel catches my eye. We don't say a word. Decades of running boardrooms and real estate empires together mean we operate on the same wavelength.
I glance over at her. "Stay here." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "We're going to the bridge."
Leaving her in the lounge feels wrong, but dragging a panicked Omega into the control room won't help. Mikkel and I turn our backs on her and head straight for the heavy teakwood doors leading to the helm.
We push into the bridge a second later. The space is a high-tech marvel of dark leather and glowing instrument panels.
It's totally dead. The digital navigation screens are black.
The radar is off. Looking out the slanted front windows confirms our worst fears.
Blue water stretches to the horizon in every direction. There isn't a single landmark in sight.
I step up to the main communications panel. "Check the phones."
Mikkel pulls his cell out of his sweatpants pocket. "Nothing. Zero bars."
I grab the emergency VHF radio handset. Flicking the power switch on the console brings a faint hiss of static to life. The marine battery has some juice left. I tune the dial to Channel 16, the international distress frequency.
I grip the receiver tight. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the motor yacht..." I pause, glancing at the registration plaque bolted to the console. "Nadia. We're adrift. No engine power. Unknown coordinates."
Static crackles through the speaker. It sounds like a handful of gravel hitting a tin roof.
"Nadia, this is..." A burst of white noise drowns out the voice. "...repeat your..."
I speak louder over the interference. "We have no power. Can you trace our signal?"
Another burst of static screeches through the room. The line goes dead. I hit the receiver against the palm of my hand and try again. Nothing happens. The signal is too weak. The outgoing tide and the deep ocean swells have pushed us way past the range of standard radio towers.
I turn back to Mikkel. "Any luck?"
He holds his phone up in the air near the window, his jaw tight. "I had one bar for half a second. The call dropped the instant I hit dial. We're in a total dead zone."
I set the radio handset back in its cradle. The reality of the situation settles over the room like a lead weight.
Mikkel steps over to the engine control station. He runs his hands over the throttle levers and punches a few buttons on the ignition panel. A red light flashes near the steering column.
"The engines are fine." Mikkel leans over the console. "But Marcus installed a high-security lockout system. It prevents theft when the boat is docked."
I walk over and look at the flashing red light. "Can you bypass it?"
Mikkel shakes his head. "Not without a crowbar and an engineering degree." He taps a small glass square on the panel. "It requires the captain's thumbprint or a key fob. Hot-wiring a ninety-foot luxury yacht isn't like stealing a car. The computer has the fuel lines locked tight."
We're dead in the water. We have no radio, no cell service, and millions of dollars worth of twin-diesel engines we can't turn on. Floating out here at the mercy of the Atlantic current is a nightmare scenario.
I drag a hand through my hair. The harsh glare of the morning sun bleeds through the slanted bridge windows, blinding me for a second. I'm forty-five years old. I don't panic. I solve problems for a living, but this puzzle has no immediate answer.
Mikkel crosses his arms over his broad chest. "We need to tell her. Leaving her in the dark will just make it worse."
I nod. I hate being the bearer of bad news. Telling a twenty-eight-year-old Omega that she's trapped on the open ocean with two older Alphas is going to be a fucking disaster. I take a deep breath, bracing myself. We head back toward the lounge.
Walking back into the upper lounge feels like stepping into a pressure cooker.
Nadia abandoned her spot near the door. She sits rigidly on the edge of the plush white sofa, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her dark eyes track us the second we cross the threshold. The tension radiating off her body is palpable.
Stopping a few feet away, I meet her panicked gaze. "The radio is mostly dead. We got a broken signal out, but we don't know if anyone heard it. Cell service is nonexistent."
She blinks. Her breathing picks up a fraction of an inch. "What about the engines? Can you drive us back?"
"No." Mikkel steps up beside me, keeping his tone just as steady. "The propulsion system has a biometric security lockout. We can't access the fuel lines without the captain's thumbprint."
Her wide eyes dart around the enclosed cabin, staring at the panoramic windows showing miles of endless ocean, then back at us.
"What do you mean we can't access the fuel lines?
" Her voice pitches up, the words spilling out in a frantic rush.
"How much food is on board? What about drinking water?
Does anyone even know we're adrift? I can't die out here.
We can't just float in the middle of the ocean until we starve. "
Her chest heaves. A terrified gasp escapes her lips.
A bitter spike of pure distress cuts right through the sweet wild honey and dark cherry aroma.
It smells like burnt sugar and sour citrus.
The odor of an Omega in deep panic is a brutal, visceral trigger.
It bypasses every single logical boundary in my brain.
My chest rumbles with a deep, instinctual demand to fix the problem and protect her.
She presses her spine hard against the backrest, fighting to draw in a full breath. She takes a short, shallow gasp, then another. She can't get any air into her lungs. The frantic questions stop as she hyperventilates.
Mikkel and I move as one.
We don't need to coordinate our actions.
The pack dynamic we've honed over two decades takes over.
Mikkel closes the distance in three long strides.
He sits on the sofa right next to her. He doesn't crowd her, but his large, imposing frame acts as a solid anchor in the room.
He places a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently guides her forward so she isn't locked in a rigid, panic-stricken line.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
The plush rug sinks under my weight. Being this close to her is a shock to the system. I reach out and wrap my large hands over her shaking fingers. Her skin is burning hot. The feverish heat of her pre-Heat symptoms sears right through my calluses.
"Nadia." I keep my voice low, authoritative, and grounding. "Look at me."
She shakes her head. Her dark hair falls into her face. Her chest rises and falls in frantic, erratic jerks.
I squeeze her hands. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand her attention. "Nadia, eyes on me. Right now."
She forces her gaze up. Her dark eyes are wide and terrified. Tears streak the smudged eyeliner down her cheeks.
"Match my breathing." I take an exaggerated, slow breath in through my nose. "Inhale for four seconds. Hold it. Exhale for four. Do it with me."
She tries. Her first breath catches in her throat on a jagged sob.
"Again." Mikkel's deep voice rumbles. "You're safe. We've got you. Try again."
Being point-blank in her personal space exposes me to the full force of her scent.
The bitter distress fades as she focuses on my breathing.
It gets replaced by something much heavier.
The wild honey and crushed cherry deepens into a rich, mouth-watering Heat.
It's intoxicating. The early markers of an impending spike are impossible to ignore now.
My mouth waters. I push the primal reaction down and focus entirely on her.
"Inhale."
She pulls a shaky breath in. She holds it. I count the seconds.
"Exhale."
She lets the air out in a rush. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
Mikkel keeps his hand steady on her back, offering a silent, protective weight.
I keep my eyes locked on hers, refusing to let her look out the windows at the empty ocean.
We run through the breathing exercise five more times.
Slowly, the frantic gasping stops. Her breathing evens out.
Her shoulders slump forward, and a violent shiver wracks her frame despite the heat of the room.
I don't let go of her hands. I stay kneeling on the floor, breathing in the heavy, agonizing scent of our business partner's daughter, and realize we're in a terrifying amount of trouble.
Nadia's erratic breathing finally smooths out into a steady, exhausted rhythm. The adrenaline crash leaves her limp against the sofa cushions. She pulls her knees up toward her chest, looking incredibly small on the wide leather seat.