I whisper against his ear, “You’re safe, wolf scout.” I kiss his jaw, and he grips my neck with a shuddered breath.
“Fuck,” Maximoff growls, pinching his eyes. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. And he screams. An angered, tormented noise barrels out of him. All this caged emotion is muffled against my shoulder and neck—and I hold him. Fuck, I’m not letting go.
I clutch him more securely. So he feels like nothing and no one will breach this embrace.
My pulse thumps hard, and his hot involuntary tears soak my skin.
I whisper in his ear. Until he eases, and his breath matches my breath. It takes minutes. Not seconds, but actual minutes. I would’ve stood here like this for hours if he needed me to.
And when he raises his head, rubbing the corners of his reddened eyes—he sees the wet deck through the glass.
His face drops. “Did it rain?”
Maximoff.
I tell him I wasn’t alone. I tell him that I love him. I tell him not to worry because I’m not worried about it, and he lets me hold more of his weight.
Earlier today when Maximoff said that he didn’t like Rowin being onboard—because he feared for my safety—I should’ve taken that into account more. I just brushed it off because I thought Rowin would only antagonize me. Not him.
Never him.
As soon as Maximoff shared his unease, I should’ve had Rowin’s ass on land.
I won’t make that mistake again.
36
MAXIMOFF HALE
Our cabin almost seems to sway with the rocking boat. Waves crash against the window, and despite all the bad that’s happened today, this right here is peaceful.
Farrow and I are intertwined together on the full-sized bed, and I can’t tell you if I’m holding him or if he’s holding me. We’ve been like this for an hour. Softly talking. Sometimes just staring. Letting the night slow with our breaths.
When we’re both at a better place, I lean over his chest and reach for the letter on the nightstand, using my left arm. Someone, probably Beckett, shoved it under the crack of our door about five minutes ago. And I’ve been craving to read it ever since.
“Do you want me to read it out loud?” I ask Farrow. He runs a hand under my T-shirt and rubs my back, his palm warm against my skin.
His lips lift. “I wrote it, wolf scout. I know what it says.”
“Thanks, I retract my offer.” I fall back onto my spine, the mattress bouncing. Our limbs have been wrestling with the navy sheets; we’re all entwined in them. I stuff another pillow under my head. More supported but still lying down.
In a swift, seamless movement, Farrow rolls on his side and props his head with his hand. Elbow to the pillow. Facing me, he asks, “Would you like me to leave the room?” His smile widens. “Give you some private time.”
“What kind of letter is this, man?”
“According to your cousins,” he says. “A really fucking great one.”
I eye him for a second, dipping into my churning thoughts. “Do you care that almost everyone in my family has already read it?” Maybe this isn’t something he wanted to be passed around.
His lips press to mine, a brief, loving kiss, before he whispers, “I knew when I gave it to Beckett that I’d be giving it to your whole family. I’m good with that.”
I stare at the folded piece of paper. You need to know that despite all the doomsdays and all the apocalypses—excitement still bursts in my chest.
Right now.
Because of him.
I didn’t think I’d feel this tonight, not after everything, but here I am. Pretty damn close to smiling, and I haven’t even read the letter.
Farrow hooks his leg with mine, growing quiet while he watches me unfold the paper. About to read his words.
His handwriting is long and fluid, as casual as he is.
Dear Beckett,
You once asked if I had something to hide. And in so little words, I replied by telling you to stay out of my relationship. Looking back, I should have said something different.
I should have told you that I’m a private person. That the idea of anyone digging into my relationship was both foreign and uncomfortable. When it came to my past boyfriends, my father asked the bare minimum. Being confronted by you was a lesson in love—a different kind that I’d never known.
I should have told you that I’m in love with him. An indescribable kind of love. And I realize now, loving Maximoff entirely means letting his family in. Because the day that I’m the reason there’s tension between him and you is the day I’ve failed him.
I should have told you that my mother isn’t going to be here for my future. For a wedding or kids. I’ve known that since I was four. But what I also know is that every day that goes by, I live to make her proud. And the only way I know how to do that is to live for love and to ensure that wherever I go, whatever I do, I am fulfilled.
I should have told you that without him, my life would be empty.
I should have told you that I’m prideful, and I would never admit that I had things to learn. But I did. And still do. He’s already taught me more than enough about goodness, morality, and unconditional love. But I still hope for a future where that doesn’t end. Where he’s still teaching me things that I’ll tell you I’d already known.
I should have told you that I care about what you think. And I want you to trust me with him. One day, I hope you can.
Sincerely,
Farrow Redford Keene
My breath deepens, eyes burning. People talk about grand gestures, but this one feels monumental and immeasurably gigantic. And I know this letter was for Beckett and my family, but I think he knew it would be for me, too.
I fold the letter back, creasing the seams. He runs his fingers through the thicker pieces of my hair.
Words. So many damn words are jumbled in my head but none feel right. So I just blurt out, “You underlined I’m in love with him.” My voice is choked.
“Yeah, I did that,” he nods, his gaze roping me in. Like I’m being tugged beneath serene water, swimming. Swimming. Alive.
I lean over, hand to his cheek, and my mouth crushes against his mouth with deep, deep emotion that pools hot inside of me. Deepening the kiss, I push my body into him, and a noise catches in his throat.
He rolls on top of me, our breaths and bodies colliding together.
Next morning, the sun hasn’t risen yet. But I’m awake and semi-ready for a pre-planned training session with Sulli off the yacht. I’m not bailing on the ultra-marathon next month.
Which means I need to move my ass and run.
I say semi-ready because I’m kind of, sort of, exhausted from my tornado of a birthday. I’ve never had a hangover. But this has to be close to the feeling.
I breathe easier knowing Rowin is gone and fired. SFO kicked him off the boat last night, and I heard he took a flight back to Philly. Thankfully Farrow has a high immunity against regret and remorse, and I’m so damn happy that he’s not eaten up with blame for Rowin’s actions. For most shit storms, he maintains a not happening again attitude and moves forward with me.
The two of us—we’re fueling a lot of family drama and gossip these days. And by gossip, I mean they’re all just whispering the truth.
“What the ever loving fuck?” Sulli gawks back at me. “Is snot running out of your nose?”
I rub my sweaty, snot-running face with the bottom of my green muscle shirt and then spit a wad of phlegm. Drop-dead-gorgeous, me. Clearly marriage quality, me.
Struggling to run up all 588 steps of the Karavolades Stairs in the Cyclades Islands, me again.
As the sun begins to crest the Aegean Sea, warm light bathes the winding, cobbled stairs that stretch up a rocky cliffside. Starting at the seaport, Sullivan, Akara, Farrow, Jack, my bodyguard, and I have been ascending the weaving steps towards the town Fira, the capital of Santorini.
My endurance is up to par. What’s really kicking my ass is the cobbled ground.
The hard, uneven terrain beneath my soles sends shockwaves up my body. Rattling my shoulders and my slowly healing collarbone in this imperceptible, painful way.
“I’m not dying,” I say confidently to Sulli, who has braked three stairs ahead of me. Her Camp Calloway baseball cap shades her green eyes from the growing light. She uses the pitstop to stretch her muscular arm across her chest.
My cousin is not even winded.
Whereas Akara and Farrow are panting, both drenched in sweat and catching their breaths. Jack is also beat, but he has the added weight of a light steadicam contraption attached to his chest.
All four stare down at me like Stubborn Fool is written in bold letters across my forehead. Farrow, in particular, has been eyeing me with a bucket load of concern but also amusement.
“I’m keeping up,” I add. “Go, don’t stop.” I start back up into a jog.
And they follow suit before I can even pass them.
If this were a race, I wouldn’t be in last. My bodyguard has fallen way behind. Bruno is in really good shape for fifty-two, but he’s bulkier than us, his muscle mass weighing him down.
Each pounding step is a razor blade. And a jolt of pain.
For Christ’s sake, my stomach churns. And the switchbacks, the constant curving of the steps, don’t help defeat nausea.
Keep up with Farrow. I repeat that mantra. Focusing on that, I start closing the gap. He runs at Akara’s brisk pace, Sulli outracing them by two stairs.
I try harder. Sweat dripping down my temples.
I go faster. Breath blazing in my burning lungs.
But no matter how far I strain my muscles, how much I push, how much pain I endure, it’s not good enough. It’s not where I need to be for Sulli.
Push harder.
I do.
And my rubber sole slips on wet cobblestone. Fuck.
Fuck.
I almost go down—I reach out, grabbing the back of Farrow’s white tee. My boyfriend instantly extends his tattooed arm backwards, catching my forearm. And then he pulls me up to his side. All the while we’re still moving.
My pulse skips a beat. The effortless affection striking me hot.
Farrow is smiling at me, knowingly, but it fades fast. And he calls out to the others, “Stop!”
I’m on my knees in a flash. Puking off the side of these old steps. Farrow crouches and puts a hand on my back.
“Moffy.” Sulli skips down the stairs to me. “Oh fuck.”
I spit off the cliffside, my head whirling. “I’m alright.” The amount of times Farrow has seen me upchuck is startling.
“Drink this.” Farrow hands me a 32 oz. blue water bottle.
“Thanks,” I say seriously. I unscrew the wide cap, and I glance back at the camera pointed at me. “Possibility that tourists will take pictures next to my puke spot?” I try to lighten the mood that I’ve sunk.
“High,” Jack says, adjusting his camera settings. “It happened to someone in a boy band.”
Akara wipes sweat off his forehead. “I heard about that.” He looks at Jack. “Fans sold his puke on eBay too?”
“Yep. Double whammy,” Jack says, unsnapping a buckle or something to the steadicam and giving his shoulders a breather from the weight.
“Chile is fucking rougher than this,” Sulli tells me while I swig my water.
“I know.” I rise to my feet, Farrow’s hand hovering by my waist in case I go down. I’m up.
I’m stable.
I can run.
Pain thumps in my collar, swelling like a balloon that expands inside a space too cramped, too small. I clear a knot in my throat. Take another swig of water.
“I’m alright to run,” I tell my cousin.
Her grit and willpower is even greater and stronger than mine. Reverse our positions where she’s the one injured, and I’m pretty sure she’d be pushing beyond the limit. And maybe that’s why she’s not able to stop me.
It reminds me of yesterday. I don’t know why. But I think about the moment where we were on the stern’s swim deck.
Sullivan was flexing, showing off her carved bicep. She kissed it. Luna stuck out her tongue, no piercing, but she must’ve eaten something blue. Janie tossed her arms in the air. And Farrow and I—we were mid-teasing, our arms wrapped around each other.
My mom, out in the sea on an inner tube, snapped that picture. And when Luna saw the photo, she said, “Alpha chicks and dudes.”
“Total-fucking-ly,” Sulli smiled.
Jane beamed. “Oui.”
The media has latched onto Farrow and me as alphas. Not always as a compliment. And hearing my sister and cousins use that word to describe themselves made me love it more.
I blink out of a short stupor. Only to see Sulli and Akara facing one another. One stair above me. Seriousness tensing their postures and faces—I must’ve missed the start of some sort of talk.
“You have lots of friends, Sul,” Akara says.
“Who?” Sulli says wide-eyed like he’s not living in the same universe as her right now.
My scowl deepens, and I slowly twist the cap back on my water.
“Dean.” Akara takes off his backwards hat, pushing back his black hair. “He’s your friend.”
“No, he’s just a swim buddy at the club,” Sulli says.
“A buddy is a friend.” His smile peeks.
Sulli sets her hands on her head, distraught. “It’s not the fucking same when I have to censor myself with them, Kits. And I already suck at talking to people. My little sister would hate it if I said anything about her and someone spilled it online.”
Saying a private thing to the wrong person—it can be frightening for us. The consequence could hurt the people we love.
“Hey,” Akara says, “with that criteria you still have lots of friends.”
“Who?” she asks, breathing harder than she has been running up this damn cliff.
“Your family,” he says strongly. “Family can be friends, Sulli.” He emphasizes both words. “Not all family is as close as yours, and you made those bonds. You did that.”
She touches her lips, contemplating.
“And I’m your friend. And…” Akara motions to his left. “Jack is your friend.”
Farrow and I look over, and Jack Highland smiles a charming smile to Sulli while he reattaches his steadicam.
Sulli shakes her head repeatedly.
“Sullivan, right in the heart,” Jack says playfully, not really hurt.
“Oh hey, I know we’re friends, and I was excited about that because I can trust you, but it’s different…” She hangs her head, hand to her eyes.
I’m about to go comfort my cousin.
But Akara steps forward. “Sulli.”
She holds out her hand to stop him from edging near. “I just feel like you stole him from me. Like Jack was supposed to be the perfect fucking friend, the guy I could hang with, the one I could talk to about anything without fear—and now you two are best friends and where am I?” She pauses. “Not that…I mean, I wouldn’t claim a friend like that…I just…” Her cheeks roast bright red.
I walk up one step, her embarrassment eking into the air.
“Sulli,” Akara starts, worried.
She looks left and right for a quick exit; she whips around and sprints. Up the hundreds of stairs. Fleeing.
Goddammit. I bolt after Sulli, and before Akara chases after her, I tell him to give us a second. Farrow and Akara are following us, but at a distance.
“Sullivan!” I shout, pain stabbing my collarbone. Water in my tight grip. I shift the bottle to my left hand since it adds weight.
She slows on the curve of a switchback. Sun growing hotter with the morning light. I breathe through my nose and wipe my temples with my bicep.
“OhmyfuckingGod,” she squats, face in her hands. “What did I say, Moffy? Why’d I fucking say that?”
I crouch in front of my cousin. “Because that’s what you felt. It’s okay, Sulli.”
“I sounded
like a fucking brat,” she mumbles against her palms and groans. “Nothing is going right.” She’s referring to more than this moment.
On the yacht, she confessed to Ryke, her dad, about passing out twice after drinking. Uncle Ryke is pretty much a pushover when it comes to his two daughters. But not on serious issues, and at the news, he looked fucking horrified.
Now Sulli only wants to drink if it’s at home, not in a public place. I think it’s a good idea. But I also think her dad’s reaction scared her more than actually passing out.
“You just sounded like you were expressing yourself,” I tell my cousin.
She takes a bigger breath and glances down the stairs to where Akara, Jack, and Farrow climb up. “I’m going to be replaying this moment in my head for eternity. Fuck my life.”
“Don’t stress about it, Sul. Really.” I nod towards the stairs, knowing that there’s only one thing that will take her mind off this. “Race you?”
She gives me a wide-eyed look, but I don’t wait for her to say it’s a bad “fucking” idea.
I just go.
And she runs with a skilled, untiring stride. Soon, she’s passing me, and the three other guys catch up to my pace.
I’m not slowing. Not stopping.
I want something to go right for Sulli.
And I push and push and push. Temperature escalating, humid and hot, the harsh drumming in my bones roils my stomach to the umpteenth degree. Around the 400th cobbled step, my body revolts against my persistence.
Lightheaded, clammy, nauseous—I stop dead in place. My hamstrings spasms, and every muscle feels like it’s cramping at the same time.
How I’m standing—I don’t know.
Farrow skids to a halt next to me. He’s slowed down the last ten minutes for me. I hate that he has, but he has and he holds my neck while I try to rub my hamstrings.
I look up at him deeply, and there’s no amusement in his features anymore. I’ve reached the threshold of what Farrow is willing to take. He endures more than anyone else could or would with me. Because I can’t live life feeling restrained or imprisoned.
And he makes me feel so goddamn weightless. But if I don’t respect my body’s limits, he’s going to—and my chest rises because I know this is it.
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