4. Soren #2
Grabbing a light throw blanket from the back of the nearest chair, I drape it over her shaking shoulders.
My knuckles graze her deep brown skin for a fraction of a second.
A jolt of electric heat zips straight up my arm, settling deep in my chest. Snatching my hand back, I ball my fingers into a tight fist at my side, forcing my breathing to stay level.
I catch Mikkel staring at my clenched fist. He gives a stiff jerk of his chin toward the hallway.
We step out of the lounge, putting distance between us and the sleeping Omega. She needs rest, and doesn't need to hear this conversation. The sound of the ocean slapping against the hull fills the silence as we head down the corridor. The dead quiet of the ninety-foot yacht sets me on edge.
Stopping in my tracks, I look up at the overhead vents. The steady hum of the air conditioning is gone. The air in the hallway already feels heavy and stagnant, losing that icy chill from the night before.
Mikkel pauses beside me, tapping the digital thermostat mounted on the wall. The screen is dim. "The AC is off. The generator must have burned through the last of its diesel running that party all night."
"So we're on the solar battery bank." I drag a hand through my hair. "That means the lower cabins are going to turn into a fucking oven in an hour. The hull traps the heat."
Nodding, Mikkel clenches his jaw. "We have to stay on the main deck. Open the sliding doors, catch the cross-breeze, and ride it out up here. If we go below deck, we'll suffocate."
A few feet away, we step into the yacht's main galley. The space gleams with brushed stainless steel and dark polished wood. We need a count of our supplies.
Walking over to the oversized refrigerator, I pull the metal handles.
Cold air spills out over my chest, a welcome relief from the stifling tension in the rest of the boat.
The internal light flickers on, proving the solar array is pulling enough juice to keep the appliances running.
Bins of fresh strawberries and leafy greens sit next to platters of sliced deli meats and expensive artisan cheeses.
Pulling open the bottom freezer drawer reveals it packed tight with frozen steaks, chicken, and bags of ice.
"Fridge and freezer are full." I shut the door. "We eat the perishables first."
Mikkel opens the double pantry doors on the opposite wall, pulling out a few boxes to stack on the granite island. "We have enough dry goods to last a week. Pasta, rice, canned beans, soup." He tosses a foil-wrapped protein bar onto the counter. "A whole box of these, too. We won't starve."
Dropping to a crouch, I open the lower cabinets near the sink. Sifting through cleaning supplies and spare sponges, I finally spot a stack of cardboard boxes shoved back into the corner. Dragging them out onto the teak floorboards reveals three full cases of bottled water.
Standing up, I check the main control panel near the stove. Tapping the screen brings up the yacht's internal diagnostics, showing the main water reservoir reading at eighty percent capacity.
"We have water." I point to the glowing blue bar on the screen. "Between the bottles and the tank, we'll be fine as long as we ration it. No showers. Sink baths and drinking water only."
Stepping past the stove, Mikkel stops in front of the built-in wine cooler beneath the counter.
Rows of vintage champagne and expensive red wine sit behind the tinted glass.
Opening the side cabinet next to it exposes an extensive liquor stash.
Tall bottles of top-shelf vodka, dark rum, and aged bourbon crowd the wooden shelves.
"Plenty of alcohol." He shuts the cabinet door. "We can crack into the bourbon later if we need to take the edge off. God knows we might need it."
With the logistical sweep done, we have food, water, and a dead boat getting hotter by the minute. The distraction is over. Now, we have to face the actual problem standing between us and our sanity.
Stepping away from the galley, we walk back toward the bar area just outside the lounge to keep our voices low. I lean against the polished wood paneling while Mikkel braces his hands on the countertop next to me.
"She's our scent match." My voice comes out as a strained rasp.
Mikkel scrubs a hand over his face. "I know."
After decades of searching, of striking out and settling for empty hookups or temporary arrangements, the reality feels like a sick joke. The one Omega who smells like absolute perfection is curled up on the sofa just a few yards away.
"She's Marcus's daughter." Rubbing the back of my neck, I exhale a harsh breath. "She's fifteen years younger than us. We touch her, we ruin the company. We destroy a thirty-year friendship."
"I know." Mikkel grips the edge of the bar until his knuckles turn white. "We keep our distance, get the comms working, secure a tow, and bring her back to her father unmarked."
Looking across the room, I watch Nadia shift under the blanket.
A sheen of sweat coats her neck, the rising heat of the cabin aggravating her pre-Heat symptoms. The intoxicating, mouth-watering scent of her arousal floods the enclosed space, wrapping around us.
It coats the back of my throat with every breath.
"We stay away." I swallow hard, fighting the instinct roaring in my chest. "We have to."
Mikkel's eyes lock onto her trembling form. "Yeah. We stay away."
I already know that’s going to be impossible, but we owe it to Marcus to try.