Chapter 8
Harper
I woke up disoriented, my mind swimming through layers of fog, not knowing where I was—only that I felt utterly safe and enveloped in warmth. I shifted slightly, and the warmth around me responded, tightening like a living thing.
Xabat.
I lay curled against his broad chest, my cheek pressed over the place where his heart thudded in a steady rhythm.
His muscular arms wrapped around me, and one hand splayed protectively across my back.
I breathed in his scent—something warm and spicy that reminded me of cedar and worn leather, with an underlying note of the sea.
My body felt heavy with a bone-deep contentment, my limbs languid and unwilling to move.
Not since my husband had I felt such a profound sense of safety around a man. I'd definitely never experienced such an immediate, visceral attraction to anyone like I did with Xabat.
I'd met Seth during my sophomore year in college, and he'd wooed me for six months before I gave in and agreed to go on a date with him.
Two years later, we were married. I loved every moment of our lives together.
Seth had been kind, patient, and understood me in a way no one else ever had.
He'd been my first true love, and even though he was gone, I still loved him. .. always would.
But Xabat made me feel different. Not only did he make me feel safe, like he'd fight nature itself to protect me, but the attraction I felt for him was something wild and exciting—a spark that threatened to ignite and burn out of control—not the stable, comforting love I'd shared with Seth.
I turned my face more fully into his chest, breathing deeply.
Goodness, he smelled good. Even with the lingering scent of beef jerky from last night's dinner clinging to his shirt, there was something about his natural scent that made heat pool low in my belly, made my skin feel too tight, made me feel like I might erupt in flames.
Outside, the hurricane had settled in with full force. The wind roared like a living creature and rain lashed against the windows. But here, in Xabat's arms, cocooned in his warmth and strength, I felt utterly safe.
It was my first time actually experiencing a hurricane.
Hurricane Fran had torn through Wilmington back in 1996 when I was just three months old, too young to remember.
Then, when Hurricane Florence barreled toward the coast in 2019, Seth and I had been newly married and tucked safely in our Raleigh home, watching the devastation unfold on television from a hundred miles inland.
Hurricane Beatrice, as this monster was called, was the worst storm to savage the North Carolina coast in the last couple of years.
I wasn't all that worried about the beach house, though.
The old structure had been built in the 1940s—solid cypress beams crafted with care by hands that understood the ocean's fury, unlike the flimsy prefabricated boxes that sprouted along the shore in recent decades.
It had weathered countless hurricanes before, and I felt in my bones that it would weather this one the same way.
I worried about Xabat's boat, though, more than he seemed to.
Perhaps it wasn't a sleek catamaran like I'd been imagining.
Maybe it was a Navy schooner, or even a warship.
Even though I didn't know Xabat well, I was sure he had some military training.
The way he'd moved when those men broke into the house all pointed to a past steeped in combat and discipline.
I snuggled deeper against him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, sighing in contentment as his warmth seeped into my bones.
I could've stayed there all day being held by him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear.
It wasn't like we could go anywhere anyway. The storm wouldn't let up anytime soon.
I must have dozed again, because when I woke, consciousness returning in slow, syrupy waves, the oppressive darkness had lifted somewhat.
While it wasn't light by any means, the suffocating blackness had dimmed to a deep, bruised gray that filtered through the cracks in the wooden boards, casting everything in muted, shadowy tones.
I snuggled against Xabat's solid warmth, but his hold on me had changed.
It felt loose, almost awkward. His arms no longer wrapped around me with that unconscious protectiveness but instead rested on my waist with careful consideration.
I moved just enough to tilt my head upward, my hair sliding across his chest as I found Xabat's dark purple eyes gazing down at me, unreadable in the dim light.
Damn, he was handsome. The dim light carved shadows across his strong features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. Yet he looked distinctly awkward, like a man who wanted to move away but didn't quite know how to extricate himself without causing offense.
"I'm sorry," I offered, pulling away with reluctance, immediately missing his warmth as cool air rushed between us.
"No bother," he said, his voice rougher than usual, gravelly with sleep.
I scooted a few feet away, wrapping myself in a couple of beach towels that smelled faintly of salt.
It was chilly, not as cold as it had been last night, but still too cool for comfort.
"You were cold. I was happy to keep you warm. "
His words were soft, almost hesitant. I noticed a slight tension in his jaw, a muscle twitching there, and a subtle shift in his posture that suggested he was far more uncomfortable than he let on. The skin on his cheeks darkened a shade, a flush of color spreading across his face. Was he blushing?
"The storm sounds like it's sitting directly on top of us," I said to ease the awkwardness that hung between us, and hoping it didn't sound forced.
"Yes," Xabat agreed, his gaze narrowing as he surveyed the ceiling. There were a few more damp spots than before, dark patches where water dripped steadily, creating a rhythmic plunk-plunk-plunk as droplets hit the floor, but nothing too disastrous.
"We should get some buckets or something to catch the leaks," I suggested, pulling the towels tighter around my shoulders. "It's the least we can do since we basically broke in."
Xabat made a sound that might have been a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, as he rose to his feet. "I'll take care of it."
He took a moment to stretch, rolling his broad shoulders and extending his arms overhead, muscles flexing and rippling beneath his shirt in a way that made the fabric pull taut across his chest and biceps.
A sight that made my mouth water and sent a flash of heat settling low in my belly.
His purple gaze suddenly swung to me, eyes narrowing, and I saw the slight flare of his nostrils.
"I'll... uh... just use the little girl's room," I stammered, wanting to move away before I said... or did something silly. Such as climbing him like a tree.
The bathroom sat tucked in the far right corner of the building, a small, utilitarian space with cracked linoleum floors and a mirror spotted with age.
Nothing to write home about, but at least it had hot water and was amply supplied with basic necessities.
I washed off the grime and sweat from yesterday, scrubbing my face and neck with rough paper towels and liquid soap that smelled antiseptic and vaguely floral.
I used the edge of a rough, brown paper towel as a quasi toothbrush, the texture unpleasant against my teeth and gums, but better than nothing.
I wondered if perhaps the store sold travel kits with actual toothbrushes and toothpaste.
.. a lot of beach shops did. For now, the makeshift solution would have to suffice.
As for my hair, I ran my fingers through the worst of the tangles and gave up.
Without a blow dryer and styling brush, the ornery mess would do whatever it wanted to do.
When I emerged, feeling marginally more human despite my rumpled clothes and tangled hair, Xabat had commandeered a dozen or so bright plastic buckets from children's sandcastle kits, positioning them strategically beneath each leak.
He'd also gathered provisions from the shelves, including packages of crackers, granola bars, and what looked like beef sticks, creating a small stockpile of sustenance to supplement our meager breakfast offerings.
I settled beside him, the floor cold even through my float, choosing a Diet Coke and a granola bar wrapped in dusty foil.
I would've killed for a cup of coffee, but at least the soda had caffeine, and the granola bar was marginally healthier than the potato chips and cookies I'd had for dinner, though not by much.
Xabat seemed utterly intrigued by the potato chips, his large hands lifting each different bag with an almost childlike curiosity, turning them over to examine the garish packaging before bringing them close to his face and sniffing cautiously, his nose wrinkling slightly at the artificial aromas.
When he came to the Cajun Barbecue flavor, he paused, his dark purple eyes narrowing with interest. He tore open the package with a sharp rip, pulled out a single chip, and held it up to the dim light, examining its reddish coating with the intensity of a scientist studying a specimen before taking a tentative bite.
A subtle shift crossed his expression—something between surprise and intrigue, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly—as the spicy, smoky flavor exploded across his tongue.
"Good, huh?" I asked, taking a bite of the granola bar and immediately regretting it as the rock-hard clusters threatened to break a tooth, forcing me to work at it with my molars.