Five hours and twenty-three minutes into the drive—the tour bus rolling along the interstate towards the first convention stop—and someone is already bleeding.

Instantly, I stand and guide my boyfriend into the small bathroom, his hands cupped under his nose. The luxury tour bus is split into four sections, from the front to back:

Driver seat and passenger seat.

First lounge: two gray couches, chair and booth, television, granite counter with a coffee pot, sink and microwave; ice chest and fridge, and then a door leads to the bathroom/shower.

Sleeping bunks: on either side of a narrow hallway includes two rows of bunks, stacked three high. Twelve total.

Second lounge: a U-shaped couch, tabletop, and a television and game console.

Almost all of us were playing poker in the second lounge, and really, when you put that many people in a confined space, this shit is bound to happen. But out of eleven people, the one person I’d choose not to be bleeding is gushing blood right now.

“Pinch your nose,” I instruct and chew my gum.

“Fuck,” he curses, his palms crimson from the steady nosebleed. He starts to tilt his head backwards on instinct. Come on, wolf scout.

“Maximoff.” My hand rises from his shoulder to neck. “Stay bent forward. Turn to me.” I need to see if the bone is fractured.

Before he does either, a voice distracts him.

“What…in the ever-loving-fuck,” Sulli curses in the doorway, jaw unhinging. “I’m so fucking sorry. I just get so competitive and…fuck.” She won the last hand of poker, and she sprung up in excitement and accidentally elbowed Maximoff in the face.

He keeps his hand cupped beneath his nose. “I’m alright, Sul.”

She inches inside as Donnelly and Beckett fill the narrow hallway to watch. Only three bodies max are able to fit in this cramped bathroom. Jane would be here, but she’s sleeping in a bunk with earplugs.

Blissfully unaware.

But the more onlookers, the more Maximoff turns his back on them, just to decrease their concern.

Shit, I need him to bend forward, pinch his nose, and face me. He sort of corners himself by the faucet and pretends like he has everything under control.

In one motion, I hop up on the counter. Sitting, but I’m still a few inches taller. And I seize his waist and draw him towards me. “Pinch your nose or I’ll do it for you—”

I smile at his immediate reaction, his fingers automatically pinching his nose and forest-green eyes automatically narrowing.

The guy doesn’t like being coddled any more than I do.

I hold his jaw and guide his head forward and a little downward. I can feel him watching me as I examine the bridge of his nose.

By sight alone, the break isn’t clear. His nose isn’t sitting crooked on his face, but it swells. Skin in the corner of his eyes also reddens, the start of bruising.

His voice is stuffed as he tells me, “It’s not that bad.”

I pop my gum. “That’s cute that you think I can’t tell if it’s serious or not.” I glance at the three spectators. “Get me ice.”

Sulli darts out. “Kits, where’s the ice?”

Beckett slips further inside the bathroom, clutching the neck of a beer, and he scans the trickles of blood along the stone tile.

Maximoff pulls out of my hand. “I’ll clean it later. Watch out, Beckett.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Beckett puts his beer to his lips. “You’ve forgotten that I’ve lived on my own in New York for the past three years. I’ve grown up. Independent and free.” He outstretches his arms before looking at me from head-to-toe. Sizing me up for the fourth time, and that’s just counting today.

See, what I know of Beckett Cobalt is mostly based on bodyguard-talk, and Donnelly told me that Beckett is anti-relationships from trust issues being a celebrity.

He’s cautious of me. Either he believes I’m going to fuck and chuck Maximoff or toy with his emotions. Both of which, I’m not subscribing to.

But I’m not about to convince a twenty-year-old that I’m “here for the right reasons” and prefer long-term relationships.

I raise my brows at him. “Question?”

Beckett licks beer off his lips. “Not at the moment.” Then he shakes his head at Maximoff. “She was one elbow away from me, and you were hit. You have the worst luck.”

“It’s the Hale Curse,” Donnelly says, propping his tattooed arm on the door frame and drinking a beer.

I roll my eyes and gesture Maximoff closer.

“The what?” Maximoff asks, his brows knotted, but he edges nearer and stands between my legs. I clutch his jaw again and inspect his nose.

“Don’t ask him,” I tell Maximoff. “Donnelly tattooed Cobalts Never Die on his knee. He’d create imaginary curses for any family but that one.”

Beckett grins into his swig of beer. “That’s true.”

Donnelly ignores his client and motions his bottle to Maximoff. “The Hale Curse. If there’s a Hale in the room: what could go wrong, will go wrong to the Hale. Statistically proven.”

The security team basically loses their shit whenever Beckett makes the face that he’s making now. It’s a scrunched-up, un-replicated you idiot, that’s utter bullshit face.

“Statistically proven,” Beckett says, “zero percent of the time.”

Maximoff starts smiling, even covered in blood.

I barely glance at Donnelly. “Looks like your client is smarter than you.”

Donnelly pats Beckett’s back. “Learned from the best. Me.” Such a buddy-guard.

Oscar squeezes through the hallway. “That’s a negative thing, Donnelly.” He skids to a halt by the door and winces at Maximoff. “Ouch.”

Quinn peeks his head in. “God, I know how that feels.” He points at the scar along his crooked nose. “Two years ago, right hook in the ring.”

“What’s that scar from?” Sulli wedges in and points at the tiny scar below his eye, and she tosses the ice baggie wrapped in a towel to Beckett. He catches it.

I’d really love for this unnecessary audience to evacuate the bathroom and hallway and stop distracting Maximoff. Who at this point has completely rotated his head away from them, and he stares at the wall.

“Skin split from another boxing match,” Quinn says. “I KO’d the other guy.”

Oscar and Donnelly start clapping in jest, and normally, I would’ve joined the mock applause, but I need these fuckers out of the bathroom.

“Okay.” I chew my gum. “I can’t do my best work with you bastards shadowing the light.” I’m not about to say, hey guys, Maximoff has trouble being vulnerable in front of people, so please kindly exit. No. I gesture to the Omega bodyguards. “Get the fuck out.”

As Donnelly leaves, he blows me a middle-finger kiss, and Oscar makes some remark about me being territorial. Quinn asks if I need anything, and Oscar sticks his head back in, just to mouth, my brother loves you. He bats his lashes.

I pop my gum and just tell Quinn, “Ibuprofen for Maximoff.”

Once they disperse, Beckett stays in the bathroom with Sulli in the doorway.

I train my focus on Maximoff. “I need to touch your nose and feel for a fracture.”

His joints lock up.

I’m not going to hurt you. I express that through my eyes, and then he nods. I lightly skim my thumb down the swollen bridge before pinching a little.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, the only sign of pain. “I’m fine,” he tries to assure me.

I concentrate on a centimeter of bone, adding almost no force as I run my finger back and forth. Shit. I drop my hand when I’m 100% certain.

“He’s prone to nosebleeds,” Beckett tells me. “This happened years back at that yacht party, and the bone didn’t break.”

Maximoff holds my gaze strongly, both of us remembering that moment. I was there. I stood on the yacht deck and saw him fight Charlie on the dock below.

He was nineteen.

I was twenty-four, on the very, very cusp of a career change from medicine to security. Even back then, I found myself investing my interest in Maximoff Hale.

I wanted to intervene on his behalf. Fuck, I would’ve loved to pull him out of that fight. But a silent Hale-Cobalt-Meadows declaration always hangs in the air: do not interject in familial arguments.

Even me, the maverick on the security team, hasn’t bent that rule out of shape, but to come to his aid, I’ve wanted to.

Many times.

Maximoff breaks eye contact and fixes a narrowed look on his cousin. “Thanks, Beckett,” he says dryly.

“I didn’t bring it up to be an asshole,” Beckett clarifies. “Farrow should know your medical history.”

Maximoff growls in frustration and tries to roll his head backwards.

I tighten my grip on his jaw, keeping him bent forward. “Don’t move.”

“Just tell me the diagnosis,” Maximoff says, still pinching his nose. “I need facial reconstructive surgery, right? A brain transplant tomorrow? Probably a full-body cast and a coffin fitting?”

I smile while chewing my gum. This guy, man. “You can keep going.”

He glowers. “I’m done.”

“That’s too bad,” I say seriously and slide off the counter, my chest brushing up against his chest. I keep hold of his jaw. “I love watching a Harvard Dropout self-diagnose a nosebleed as a full-body injury.”

He’d flip me off if he could.

My hand descends, and I rub the back of his neck. My other fingers hover by his wrist. “Bleeding looks like it’s slowed.” I draw his hand down so he stops pinching his nose. No blood dripping. That’s good.

“And?” he asks.

“No surgery, no X-rays. You only need ice and pain meds. It’s just a small break.” I’ve seen several minor nose fractures in the ER like his. I take the ice from Beckett. “Keep the ice across the bridge of your nose and be gentle. It’ll help with swelling.”

His shoulders loosen, relaxed at the news. I know what concerns him—and it’s not pain—it’s calling the concierge doctor, scheduling a surgery date, and derailing the meet-and-greet tour where fans, crew, and everyone on the bus are counting on him.

Maximoff splays the ice baggie across the bone, and I wash my hands in the sink.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Sulli says again. “If you want to bail on the ultra marathon, I totally get it.”

Maximoff speaks for three full minutes, assuring Sulli that he can easily still run. The race isn’t soon either, and regardless, they won’t have that much time to train on tour.

Beckett sips his beer and watches me wipe my hands on a towel. Blue and yellow braided “friendship” bracelets are tied loose on his wrists. Identical to the ones on Sulli’s ankles.

He has a question for me. I can tell. “Ask,” I say and toss the towel on the counter.

“Is Maximoff your first relationship?”

“No.”

Maximoff extends his hand. “Beckett, let’s not go here, alright?”

Beckett turns on him. “Have you asked Farrow why his other relationships ended? Did he break up with them or was it the other way around? How many guys has he been in love with—”

“Man,” I cut him off, “no offense, but I’m not in a relationship with you. If Maximoff wants these answers, I’ll tell him, but I’m not holding a public forum.”

Beckett skims the length of me for the fifth time now. “Why not? You have something to hide?”

“Stop, Beck,” Maximoff warns.

Sulli wavers uneasily, disliking confrontation.

“I’m just looking out for you, Moffy,” Beckett says while zeroing in on me. As though I’m prey, but it’d take more than this kid’s skepticism to arch my back and reach for a figurative gun.

I lift my brows and chew my gum casually. He stares harder. My nonchalance is grating on him.

“I appreciate the concern,” Maximoff says, “but I’m highly capable of dealing with my relationship on my own.” His voice is firm and unyielding. All alpha.

My smile stretches, roped in for a second, but as I turn, I realize quickly that Beckett mistakes my reaction for arrogance. Like I’m toting a win over his head and smirking, Maximoff took my side, not yours.

Not the case.

Not the truth.

“I don’t play under the table,” Beckett says to me, “so I’m putting this out in the open.” He mimics me, raising his brows. “I don’t trust you—”

“You don’t trust me because you don’t know me—”

“Whatever the case,” Beckett says.

And I spot Akara in my peripheral, lingering. He whispers to Sulli, and she nods before slipping out.

Beckett continues, “If you betray my cousin, all seven Cobalts will destroy you far worse than you could ever hurt him.”

“Fair enough,” I say, more so acknowledging Akara who motions me out of the bathroom. As I leave into the first lounge, Maximoff shuts the door and starts talking privately with Beckett.

Most of SFO are spread out on the gray couches, eavesdropping. Oscar stands and whispers to me, “They haven’t dealt with siblings or cousins in serious relationships. You’re the first.”

“I realize that.” I comb a hand through my bleached hair. “You know Kinney Hale would’ve stabbed you in the eye for calling her ex-girlfriend not serious.”

Oscar motions from his chest to mine. “You and I know puppy love isn’t serious. What is she, nine?”

“Thirteen.” I run my hand over my jawline. “She’ll ‘revoke’ your membership to that Rainbow Brigade shit if you’re not careful.”

Oscar almost laughs, and he reties a rolled bandana around his forehead. “It’s not real until she makes pins.”

“Tell her that.” I glance at Akara who finishes chatting with someone on a bunk. He motions me further down the hall and into the second lounge.

Before I follow, Oscar lowers his voice another octave. “Seriously though, I know Maximoff is one of the hottest celebrities, and I can imagine what the sex is like—”

“No you can’t,” I say easily.

His mouth parts. “Now I’m gonna need details.”

I let out a short laugh and glance at Akara, who’s waiting. “Oscar—”

“You have to ask yourself,” he whispers, “if dealing with these families on a personal level, not professional, is really worth it. Because I know you, you’ll get in the trenches and fight until you die. But now’s the time to step out while you still can.”

I chew my gum slowly and shake my head. “I’d never commit, fuck a guy, then break up. And I’m not about to crush him because I’m scared of his family when I’m not even a little bit afraid.”

“And your lack of fear makes me uneasy,” Oscar says outright, “but you do you, Redford. When this crashes and burns, it’ll be my turn to take you out for drinks.”

I roll my eyes. He broke up with his long-term boyfriend in college, and I took him to a bar so he’d stop texting Darrien.

And I may’ve bought him one Corona.

Without another word, I finally make my way to the second lounge. Only Akara here.

He rests against the tabletop and snaps his fingers to his palm. “So first thing, did you read the SFO email?”

“Yeah.”

Thatcher sent the email to all of us at the crack of dawn. I barely skimmed the words, but I can recite the entire “memorandum” by heart.

SFO Rules on Tour (not to be negotiated or disputed):

1. SFO will take shifts driving the tour bus. Since Paul Donnelly & Quinn Oliveira failed the driver’s test to operate the bus, only Akara Kitsuwon, Farrow Keene, Oscar Oliveira, and Thatcher Moretti will drive. Thatcher has been behind the wheel for the past hour.

2. The tour bus acts as a “home on wheels” and for this reason, you’re considered “off-duty” on the bus. You’re not required to wear radios on the bus, but you must immediately wear them once you step off. Keep your phones charged in case Alpha or Epsilon need to reach you.

3. Bus doors must be locked at all times.

4. Alert the driver if your client leaves the bus. Always join your client. Don’t leave their side.

5. Any guests must be vetted before allowed on the bus. NDAs are required.

6. We’ll drive through nights, so please be respectful of those sleeping. Don’t bang doors.

7. Some conventions will include overnight stays at hotels. Bodyguards must stay in the hotel room with your client. It’s likely some clients will want to room together (i.e. Sulli & Jane) – make note of this.

8. There are nine men to two women. Please respect their space.

9. Recognize that the tour crew isn’t allowed on the bus. You are. Understand this honor, and ensure the protection of your client.

10. Lastly, remember the hierarchy. You have any concerns, bring them to Akara or Thatcher.

“Good,” Akara says. “Thatcher wanted to make sure you didn’t just delete it.”

“Of course he did.” I notice the severity in Akara’s face. “What’s wrong?”

He checks over my shoulder, but no one is eavesdropping. Then he whispers, “Tech team traced the IP address of the Instagram account. The user is from Philly.”

I don’t blink. “The probability that they know Maximoff—”

“Is a lot higher,” Akara finishes. “The user blocked the tech team, and now there’s a firewall stalling us.”

“Shit.”

“Possible motives for someone to make a personal ‘death threat’ account would be revenge.” Akara pauses as the bathroom door swings open, and we both shift. Our backs to the hall. “Omega is going to quietly work on unmasking the anonymous user, and while we gather intel, don’t obsess over the account.”

I frown. “How is the account still active? We flagged it.”

“We need it to stay live now,” Akara explains. “If the user really is plotting to hurt Maximoff, that account is the only evidence we can track.”

I nod, my gaze searing. Everything inside of me craves and pleads to solve this now and free Maximoff from a threat. To keep him safe. Protect him.

But I’m on a bus.

Headed towards a sleepless city, and his fast-paced life isn’t stopping for anyone.