Light rain patters the mega yacht, and an overhang shields half of the main deck from the drizzle. I’m dry, sitting behind the fully stocked bar. Mostly so none of Maximoff’s cousins can see me daze the hell out.

I can’t rid the nauseous scent of rain on metal.

Reaching into the bar’s cabinet, I grab a bottle of Grey Goose. I try to untwist, and I hear ping ping ping.

I stare off into nothingness.

Listening.

And someone rips the bottle out of my hands.

Sensory overload, I’m not going to be able to discern who just stole my vodka. At least not right away.

Seeing as how six protective motherfuckers have been towering above me, I’ll take an educated guess and say it’s someone from SFO.

I blink, and I see Banks Moretti crouching and opening the Grey Goose. Brown hair curled behind his ears, eyes the color of a coffee bean, unshaven jaw—he looks absolutely identical to his twin brother in almost every way.

He’s officially an Omega bodyguard, but I wasn’t there for that security meeting. Obviously I couldn’t be.

And thankfully these guys know that I wasn’t planning on drinking the vodka. Banks does what I was about to do and holds the bottle beneath my nose.

“Smell that, Redford?” Oscar asks me.

I hang my forearms on my bent knees. “Not even a little bit.”

“Shoulda brought the pizza from our boat,” Donnelly says. “Pizza smells better than vodka.” True.

My fingers press into the ground, about to rise to my feet, but I suddenly feel gravel digging into my palms. It’s not real…

There’s no gravel on the boat.

“Hold up, don’t stand,” Akara tells me, an ace at leadership, even when I’m not a part of the team anymore.

Thatcher hands a bottle of water to Banks to give me, and when he does, I unscrew the cap with more focus. I see my surroundings clearly. My other senses are a little out of whack from the intrusive memories.

Maximoff.

I don’t see him. He’s not back yet, but he most likely ran into his siblings inside. Xander has a hard time staying angry at his older brother, so I imagine they’re patching-up their fight.

Akara sets his beer aside. “Is it just the rain?”

“Yeah, it’s been a hotspot.” I comb my hair back and eye the beer bottle. “Don’t stop drinking on my account, Kitsuwon.”

Quinn swigs his beer at that, and Oscar gives his baby brother a look like he shouldn’t be listening to me.

I almost smile, my pulse gradually beginning to even out. And I take a gulp of water.

“Should you go inside the saloon?” Akara asks.

“No, if I avoid it, it’s just going to persist.” This kind of PTSD isn’t new to me, and I’m fairly certain I have the tools to move past this. It’s just a process that takes patience, but the bad timing is frustrating as hell.

Rain on metal. It’s suddenly three times as pungent. “An orange?” I ask vaguely.

“In the galley,” Akara tells Quinn, and Quinn leaves to return quickly with the fruit.

I concentrate on peeling the rind. Citrus overpowers my nose. There we go. My pulse is slowing, and Donnelly starts rehashing a story about how Quinn slipped off the rib.

And I rise to my feet. More at ease, I lean on the sleek bar, and the glass doors slide open in front of us. I set down the partially peeled orange. Donnelly goes quiet, and we all look at who walks on deck.

“Farrow.”

It’s Rowin.

Fucking hell.

My ex glances cautiously at SFO while he closes the saloon doors. “I need to talk to you,” he tells me. This entire yacht trip, he’s been passive aggressive and petulant towards me, but as he approaches me now, he’s neither of those things.

He’s acting cagey as fuck.

“Go ahead.” I wave him onward.

“In private,” Rowin clarifies.

I narrow my gaze. “No. I don’t give a shit if SFO hears.”

But he does. He runs a hand down his tense face, staying about three arm’s lengths away from me. “I just wanted to clear the air with you.”

“You want to clear the air with me?” I repeat like his screw has come loose. “Today of all days?” It’s my boyfriend’s birthday.

“It only just came up.” Rowin glances out at the starry night. Lanterns light up the wet deck.

And the rain has stopped.

I watch him shift his weight. I don’t like this.

Something’s not right. My gut is screaming, and I straighten off the bar.

Rowin jabs a thumb behind his shoulder, pointing at the saloon. “I ran into Maximoff inside. And I misread a few signals. It shouldn’t be a big deal; he said he wasn’t interested.”

My pulse spikes as I try to decipher this shit. “Are you…?” My face twists in agonized thought. “Are you saying that you came onto my boyfriend?”

There’s no way in hell that can be right.

Rowin avoids my gaze. “Like I said, I misread the signals.”

I explode forward. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I yell between my teeth.

SFO yells over one another, trying to separate me from Rowin before we even collide. My ex stumbles back and holds up a hand in surrender.

“You’re a piece of shit,” I sneer and shrug off my friends that try to restrain me, and I glare at Donnelly. “Let go.”

He does.

They all do.

Claws may as well be shredding my entire body and heart and skull. I don’t know what Rowin did exactly, if he threw out a pickup line or…I can’t imagine…

I rub my mouth and take a deeper breath. I center my emotion on something productive. Bile burns the back of my throat, and everything inside of me is screaming to find Maximoff. Adrenaline ramped, pulse beating in my eardrums.

Find him.

I push past SFO and hawk-eye the sliding glass door, about to go inside. Four steps there, I change course. Instinct propels me, and I swerve onto Rowin. In one swift move, I twist his shirt in two white-knuckled fists and slam his back up against the glass.

“If I find out you touched him, I will kill you,” I threaten.

Rowin is only looking at SFO behind me. He’s waiting for the six guys to come to his aid. But not a single one moves. None of them save him. None of them want to.

Because they’re not his friends.

They’re mine.

And they know he’s a piece of fucking shit. I release my grip because I see a figure through the glass. Inside the saloon, Maximoff just steps off the winding staircase.

“Akara,” I say, but he immediately detains Rowin before I ask. Pulling him far, far away from the entrance to the saloon.

I waste no more time.

I go inside.

“Maximoff,” I call out, quickly sliding the door shut. He’s in almost no clothing. A skin-tight swimsuit cut like boxer-briefs—if Rowin touched him…

My nose flares, and I realize that Maximoff is on a fucking mission. Storming past the interior cocktail bar with stoicism and purpose, he gestures behind me and asks, “Is Rowin out there?”

I rapidly sweep his sharpened features. “What happened?” I don’t move away from this door because wolf scout is coming in hot. He has one sole focus. And it’s not on me right now.

“We need to get Rowin off this yacht. We can toss his suitcase in the sea for all I fucking care, but he needs out of here.” He fixates on the door.

“SFO have him—” I cut myself off and sidestep before Maximoff passes me. I block him with my build.

“Farrow.” His Adam’s apple bobs.

“Look at me, look at me,” I breathe, our chests an inch apart, and as soon as I capture his attention, I say, “You need to tell me what happened, Maximoff.”

He blinks, eyes completely bloodshot. “Rowin trapped me against a door, but he didn’t put his hands on me. I shoved him off. That’s it.”

I almost rock back, like I’ve been sucker-punched. “He trapped you…against a door?” I picture it, and my chest just collapses. I reach out to hold Maximoff. To touch him, but I wait for the confirmation.

He nods repeatedly.

Over and over.

We draw together. Chest to chest. His arms weave across my back, his rigid body not slackening. And I feel his pulse racing.

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.