Elena set her mug down on the counter and let herself look at him.

He stood at the stove, his back to her, barefoot in dark jeans that fit him just right, sitting low on his hips and molding to the lean lines of his legs. She couldn’t help but stare at the simple denim, but on him it was just too delicious. A plain white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and the combination made him look unfairly good—casual, comfortable, completely unaware of the effect he was having on her. He was now making breakfast—eggs and something that smelled like butter and herbs—and the quiet intimacy of it settled in her chest.

Her body still hummed. That was the only way she could think of it. A low, satisfied thrum under her skin. She ached in places she'd never ached before, a pleasant soreness that made her want to press her thighs together to feel it again. Every time she moved, she remembered. Every time she breathed, she remembered.

She wanted more.

The thought should have embarrassed her. She'd been a virgin only hours ago. She should be shy, demure, uncertain. Instead, she felt as if she’d been handed a secret, and all she wanted was to learn it by heart.

Liam turned, spatula in hand, and caught her staring. His mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile, but it softened the hard lines of his face in a way that made her stomach flip.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She slid off the stool. "Just smells really good."

She rounded the island, barefoot on the cool wood, and came to a stop beside him. He was taller than her by a head, and she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. The morning light came through the window behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the dark stubble he still hadn't shaved. She reached out and traced her fingers along his collarbone, where the T-shirt dipped.

"You're in my way," she said, and the lie was so obvious she didn't even try to make it convincing.

His hand caught her wrist, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world. "Am I?"

"Mm." She stepped closer until her chest brushed his arm. "I am trying to get to the coffee."

"Your coffee's on the counter."

“Really? I must’ve missed that.” Her voice came out low and deliberately seductive.

He set the spatula down. The stove clicked off, and the air between them changed—shifted, tightened. His hand was still around her wrist, his thumb pressing against the inside where her pulse beat, and she watched his eyes go dark.

"Elena." His voice was low, a warning and a question all at once. "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer. She rose onto her toes and kissed him instead.

He let her. For one breath, two, he let her press her mouth to his and slide her hand up his chest. Then his hand moved—not to push her away, but to grip her hip and turn her, walk her backward until her spine met the edge of the counter. The wood bit into her lower back, and she gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

His body pressed her into the counter, his arousal hard against her stomach, and she felt the heat of him through his jeans. His hand left her hip, came up to her jaw, and tilted her head back until she had to look at him.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, and his voice had gone rough, gravelly, a sound that scraped down her spine and settled somewhere low.

"Yes."

"Because I told you to rest." His thumb traced her jaw, slow and deliberate. "You're still healing."

"I know." She was breathless. "I don't care."

His other hand came up, and he grabbed her breast—not gentle, not tentative. His palm covered her through the thin cotton of his shirt she'd borrowed, and he squeezed, and she felt the shock of it all the way down. Her knees buckled. He caught her, held her against the counter with his body, and did it again.

"You should be resting," he said against her mouth, his voice a low rumble. "You should probably be in bed, letting yourself heal."

"Then be gentle." She heard the plea in her own voice, the wobble. "Just—be gentle with me. I want more. I want you."

He looked at her for a long moment. His hand was still on her breast, his thumb brushing across the peak, and she could feel how hard he was, pressing against her hip. His jaw tightened. Then something in his eyes shifted—gave way, like a door opening—and he kissed her again, harder this time.

His mouth took hers, and his hands took her body. He grabbed her hips, lifted her, set her on the edge of the counter. She made a sound against his lips, and he swallowed it, his tongue sliding against hers. His hands moved up her thighs, under the hem of the shirt, and his palms were rough against her skin, calloused, possessive.

"Is this really what you want?" he asked again, and his voice was darker now, rougher, a sound that made her stomach clench.

"Yes." She was already wet and aching for him, the need between her legs building with every touch. "Please, Liam."

His hand slid up her thigh, higher, and she spread her legs for him without being asked. He made a sound low in his throat, and she knew she'd pushed him exactly where she'd wanted. His fingers found her, sliding through her slick folds, and she gasped.

"Already so affected." His voice was a scrape against her ear. "Still thinking about this morning?"

She couldn't answer. The memory alone was enough to make her breath catch, and his touch only made it worse. She shifted closer, unable to hide how much she wanted him.

His eyes darkened as he watched her. "I asked you a question."

"Yes," she breathed. "I can't stop thinking about it. About you."

"What do you want?" His fingers pressed harder, circling, and she had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

"You. I want you again." The words tumbled out, shameless, desperate. "I want to feel you inside me. I wanted—"

She couldn't finish. The pleasure was building, coiling low in her belly, and she could feel herself getting close. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"That's it," he said, low and rough. "Let me see you."

She was right there. Right at the edge. Her body was shaking, her fingers white-knuckled on the counter, and she could feel the orgasm rising, cresting, ready to break—

A crackle of static split the air.

Liam went still. His hand froze against her, his whole body locking, and the sound that came out of his mouth was a curse—low and vicious and completely unlike the man who'd been touching her a second ago.

The static buzzed again, louder, and Elena blinked, dazed, her body screaming at the loss of contact. She watched him pull his hand away, watched him cross the room in three long strides, and wrench open a cupboard she'd never even noticed. He pulled out a radio—large, black, industrial, with a thick antenna and a dial that crackled with static.

"Ward to Thorn. Ward to Thorn."

The voice was tinny, distorted, but clear. Elena sat on the counter, her thighs pressed together, her heart pounding, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

Liam keyed the radio. "Go for Thorn."

"The Acquisition has moved to phase two."

"Copy." He paused, then said two words that made no sense to her: "Thorn Out."

There was a beat of silence. Then the voice came back: "Copy. Over and out."

The radio went dead.

Liam stood there for a moment, his hand on the radio, his back to her. The silence in the cottage was sudden and thick, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the shore. Elena's body was still thrumming, still aching, the ghost of his fingers between her legs, and she couldn't quite make her brain catch up to what had just happened.

"Liam?" Her voice came out thin. "What was that?"

He held up a finger. One finger. Like she was to wait. Like she was to sit there on the counter with her legs spread and her pussy throbbing and just—wait.

But she did just that. She obeyed and waited.

The radio stayed silent. The static didn't crackle again. After a long moment, Liam turned, and his face was a mask again—the flat, controlled expression he wore when he was working, when he was making deals. The man who'd been touching her was now gone.

"We need to pack," he said. "We need to get back to the Manor."

Elena stared at him. "What?"

"There’s a problem." He was already moving, crossing the room, grabbing items and placing them into the small crates they'd used to bring supplies ashore. "There's a problem that I need to get back to handle."

“But—” She shook her head, trying to clear the lingering haze. “What acquisition? What did that mean? What does that even—”

He came to her then, stopped in front of her, and his hand came up to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. It was gentle. Tender. A complete reversal of everything that had been happening a minute ago.

"I've got a business problem to handle," he said. “Someone is waiting on a decision, and the timing couldn't be worse. Now I need you to listen."

She wanted to say no. She wanted to demand answers, to make him explain the radio and the mystery message and why his body had gone so cold so fast. But his thumb was still on her cheek, and his eyes were still on hers, and she could feel the aftershock of his touch still pulsing between her legs.

"Yes, Sir," she said.

He kissed her forehead again, then stepped back. "Pack your things. I'll get the boat ready."

He was out the door before she could say anything else.

Elena sat on the counter for a long moment, her legs dangling, her body aching, her mind spinning. The radio sat on the counter where he'd left it, silent and black and full of secrets.

She slid off the counter and went to pack.

Her clothes were in the dresser in the bedroom she'd been using. She pulled them out, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and folded the rest, stacking them in her bag—the flowing sundress she'd worn on the boat, the shorts, the tank tops. She moved mechanically, her body still buzzing with everything that had just happened, while her mind kept circling the sudden change in Liam. One moment he'd been warm and close, and the next he'd gone cold and distant, leaving her with nothing but questions and the strange, unfinished feeling of being left in the middle of something.

She had no idea what any of it meant.

She finished packing her bag, zipped it, and then remembered her swimsuit and the shell were still in Liam's room, where they'd been left after the diving trip. She crossed the hallway and pushed open his door.

The room was neater than they'd left it. Liam had straightened the sheets and gathered the discarded clothes, leaving only a few wrinkles in the bedding as evidence of what had happened. Elena's face heated, and she looked away, crossing to the dresser where he'd left her swimsuit to dry.

Her hand closed on the fabric. Then her gaze went to the nightstand, where Liam had placed it. She crossed the room and picked it up, turning it over in her hand. For a moment, she simply looked at it, remembering the way Liam had placed it in her hands just before she'd nearly drowned.

She slipped it carefully into her bag, then remembered.   The Journal.

It was still on the bookshelf, where she'd put it back. The old leather binding, the faded gold letters she'd traced with her fingers. Amara Thorn's journal.

Elena hesitated, her swimsuit in one hand, her eyes drawn to the journal on the shelf. She'd already read part of it, hidden in this very room, discovering pieces of Liam's childhood through his mother's words. Now that she knew there was more to uncover, the thought of leaving it behind felt strangely wrong.

She crossed the room and pulled the journal from the shelf, slipping it carefully into her bag.

She wanted to know what came next. More importantly, she wanted to understand Liam—and somehow, she suspected more of the boy Liam had been was waiting in those pages.

As Elena got up and started to move towards the door, it opened, and Liam stepped inside. He paused when he saw her, his gaze settling on the bag in her hand.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes." She zipped her bag. "I just needed to grab the rest of my things."

He nodded. "I'll take this to the boat."

Liam took the bag from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in an almost absent way, already elsewhere. He turned and walked out of the room without waiting for her to follow, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. Elena remained still for a moment, the ghost of his touch still on her skin, and then she followed.

The sun was higher now, burning off the morning mist that clung to the island. The Briar Rose sat at the end of the weathered pier, bobbing gently on the swell, her white hull bright against the dark water. Liam had already loaded most of the supplies—the crates, the food, the water—and he moved around the deck with a practiced efficiency that left no room for conversation.

Elena stopped at the edge of the pier and watched him for a moment. Something had changed. His shoulders were tense, his expression unreadable, and whatever softness had been there that morning was gone.

She stepped onto the boat, and the deck shifted under her weight. He glanced at her once, and then went back to the lines.

"Untie the stern line," he said. "I'll get the bow."

She did what he asked. The rope was rough in her hands, wet with spray, and she had to work the knot loose with her fingers. When it came free, she coiled it and set it on the deck, the way she'd seen him do it. He nodded, a small acknowledgment, and then he was at the helm, the engine coughing to life beneath them.

The island fell away behind them, the cottage shrinking to a speck of white among the green, the pier a thin line against the rock. Elena stood at the rail and watched it go, her fingers curled around the strap of the bag that held the journal and the conch shell. For a few days, the island had felt like a world of its own—just her and Liam, with nothing else able to reach them. Now it was disappearing behind them.

The sea opened up around them, vast and indifferent, and the wind began to pick up. It came hard and straight off the water, pressing her hair back from her face, pulling at the hem of her shirt. She tasted salt on her lips.

Liam cut the engine.

The sudden silence was startling—just the slap of water against the hull, the creak of the rigging, the wind whistling through the lines. He moved past her without a word, his hands working the sails, and she watched him with a growing sense of unease. He knew what he was doing. That was clear. But there was something in the way he moved now, something that hadn't been there before, that made her stomach tighten.

The sail unfurled with a sharp crack that snapped through the air and made her flinch. The canvas filled with wind, straining against the mast, and the boat surged forward so suddenly that she had to grab the rail to keep her footing. The deck tilted beneath her, the bow cutting into the waves, spray exploding over the gunwale.

And Liam stood at the helm, his hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

The man she'd woken beside that morning seemed very far away now. This Liam was quieter, more guarded, as though he'd pulled something inside himself shut and left her standing on the other side of it.

Elena made her way across the pitching deck, one hand gripping the rail as the boat cut through the waves. The wind tore at her hair, whipping it across her face, and she pushed it back as she approached the helm.

“Liam.”

He didn't look at her. His hands remained steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the horizon. She waited a moment, watching him, searching for even the smallest sign that he'd heard her.

“Liam.” Still nothing.

A quiet frustration flickered through her, but she pushed it down and stepped closer instead. She reached out, resting her hand lightly against his arm. Tension thrummed beneath her fingers. “Are you okay?”

His gaze did not waver from the horizon. “I’m fine,” he said, the words even and controlled, too practiced to be comforting.

Elena studied his profile, the hard line of his mouth, the way he held himself as if bracing against something she couldn’t see. “You don’t look fine,” she said softly.

“I have something to deal with.”

“You could tell me what it is,” she pressed, her voice quieter now, less certain.

His jaw tightened, a brief shift in the otherwise still mask he wore, but when he spoke, his tone remained calm. “It’s business, Elena.”

She let her hand fall away from his arm, the space between them suddenly feeling wider than it had a moment ago. “And I’m not allowed to know about your business?”

At that, his eyes finally moved—leaving the horizon at last to meet hers. The look in them was unreadable, but firm.

“Not this one.”

His response was sharp. The wheel creaked beneath his grip, the sail snapped overhead, and the silence stretched until she felt it in her chest like a held breath.

She dropped her hand. Fine. If he wanted to be like that, she wouldn't stand there and watch him disappear. She had an idea.

She grabbed a towel from a cubby and took the steps to the upper deck. She climbed, the wind pressing her shirt against her body, and when she reached the top, she paused. From here, she could see all of him at the helm clearly below—and, more importantly, he could see her.

Perfect.

She spread the towel across a patch of sun-warmed fiberglass, angled just enough that she wouldn't have to look toward him to know he could see her, then sat down with her legs stretched out in front of her, her jean shorts riding up her thighs.

The sun was high now, white and bright, and the sea stretched out around them like hammered glass. She tilted her face up to it, closed her eyes, and let the warmth soak into her skin. Then, with a quick motion, she reached behind her head, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and pulled it off.

The wind hit her bare skin, cool and salt-tinged, and she heard herself let out a small, satisfied breath. She lay back on the shirt, letting the sun warm her skin. She didn't open her eyes. She didn't need to.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The boat rocked. The sail creaked. The water slapped against the hull.

Then the wheel turned hard, and the boat yawed, and she heard his voice cut through the wind, sharp and rough: "What are you doing?"

She didn't sit up. She let her head loll to the side, her hair spilling over her shoulder, and opened her eyes to find him staring up at her from the helm. His hands were still on the wheel, but his body had turned toward her, his shoulders angled, his eyes fixed on her.

"Sunbathing," she said, her voice light, lazy. "I've got nothing else to do, since some asshole doesn't want to relax."

His jaw tightened. He didn't look away. His gaze dropped from her face to her breasts, and she watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched the way his hands tightened on the wheel. She let her head slip further to the side, tilting her chin down, and she saw it—the unmistakable line of his erection pressing against the front of his jeans.

A slow, wicked satisfaction curled through her. She smiled, not bothering to hide it, and let her hand drift down her stomach, her fingers finding the waistband of her shorts. She slipped two fingers into the front, just resting them there, just a tease, and watched his eyes track the movement.

"So," she said, her voice carrying across the deck, "are you going to stop your little tantrum and actually talk to me? Or am I supposed to entertain myself?"

He stared at her for a long, loaded moment. The boat rocked. The wind pulled at her hair. Then something in his face cracked—a small, unwilling shift at the corner of his mouth that wasn't quite a smile.

"Fine," he said, and the word came out rough, almost grudging, like he was surrendering something he hadn't meant to give up. "I'm sorry."

She raised an eyebrow. "For?"

"For shutting you out." He let go of the wheel with one hand and ran it through his hair. "It's not—this isn't about you. It's just business, and I got in my head about it." He paused, and his eyes dropped to her chest again, and his voice went lower. "You should probably put your shirt back on, though. Before you get sunburned."

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, slow and deliberate, and reached for the shirt beside her. She was lifting it, the fabric already brushing her ribs, when his voice cut through the air again.

"Actually."

She froze, the shirt half-lifted, and looked down at him. His eyes were dark now, the flat mask gone, replaced by something hungry and amused at once.

"Keep it off," he said, and it wasn't a request. It was a command, low and certain, the same voice he'd used on her that morning. "I like the view."

Her breath caught. She let the shirt fall back down, her skin prickling in the sun, and she saw the corner of his mouth finally curve into a real smile.

"That's better," he said, and turned back to the wheel, the tension in his shoulders finally gone. "Now lie down here in the shade and let me look at you while I sail us home."