Her hand twitched in the space between us, pausing for a heartbeat before she reached out and touched me. It was just a brush of her fingers against mine, but it felt like fire.

  She didn’t pull away.

  I turned my hand, palm up, and let our fingers entwine. My heart thundered. Definitely not the reaction of someone unaffected.

  When I looked at her, she was already watching me. The walls between us weren’t down, but they were cracked—enough for heat to seep through.

  I shifted slightly, giving her space to retreat.

  She didn’t.

  Our lips met, soft at first. A tentative question neither of us dared to speak.

  Then she leaned closer, deepening the kiss—heat rising, distrust melting, something fragile and real blooming in the embers.

  Her hand slid to my jaw. Mine cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing that tender place beneath her ear. Her breath hitched.

  When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together. Her eyes were wide, searching.

  “We can’t do this,” she whispered.

  “I know.”

  But neither of us moved.

  The fire had been lit and it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon.

  She was the first to move.

  An inhale, then the subtle shift of her shoulders as she pulled her hand back. Her eyes flicked away, as if the kiss had betrayed her more than me.

  Outside, the yacht rocked gently, the water lapping against the hull with a hollow, rhythmic thump. The mattress creaked beneath us as she readjusted, moving a good two feet away.

  Her voice, when it came, was firm. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  I didn’t respond immediately. My pulse was still hammering in my throat. I needed a second to gather what was left of my composure.

  So I studied her instead. The way she folded back into herself. Tension drew tight along her spine—an emotional retreat as abrupt as a slammed door.

  A part of me admired the control. The discipline. Another part of me hated it.

  “Why?” I asked softly.

  Her gaze snapped to mine. “Why what?”

  “Why shouldn’t it have happened?”

  She didn’t answer, but a muscle in her jaw flexed tight.

  I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. That quiet, calculating part of me—the one trained to read people like ledgers—clicked into place. Every breath, every blink, the subtle twitch of her mouth.

  She was unraveling. She just hadn’t realized how far.

  “You think it makes you weak,” I said. “To want something or someone.”

  Her eyes darkened. “This isn’t about wanting.”

  “You’re right,” I murmured. “If we were smart, we’d stay on opposite sides of this room and pretend the chemistry between us doesn’t exist. We can pretend this kiss or the other we shared didn’t tear a hole in the walls we spent years building. You spent years building,” I corrected.

  Her breath caught for just a second.

  “But pretending won’t protect you, Amara. It only dulls the blade until it slips and cuts you anyway.”

  She looked away again, jaw locking.

  “You think I’m the risk,” I continued, voice low and measured. “But it’s not just me. You and your siblings have trained yourselves to compartmentalize so well that you’ve forgotten the difference between love and loyalty.”

  Her glare returned. “Don’t pretend you know us.”

  “I don’t pretend to know them.” The psychopathic twins were doomed, and there was no point in trying to understand them. “But I know you. I’ve watched you long enough to know you.”

  She stood suddenly, her boots thudding softly on the wooden floor as she turned away, spine rigid, arms folding over her chest like a shield.

  “I should’ve made Elira come,” she muttered.

  “But you didn’t,” I said, tone calm but cutting. “Just admit that a part of you trusts me.”

  She spun back around, eyes flashing. “No. Some part of me wants you. That’s not the same as trust.”

  I let that sit for a moment, let it echo beneath the distant hum of the yacht’s systems.

  “What if I told you something real?” I asked, softer now. “Something you could use to hurt me.”

  She stopped moving, hesitated.

  “I already know how to hurt you,” she said, voice quieter now. “Anya is your weakness. But I’d never use her. She’s my friend.”

  “And she’s my sister,” I gritted.

  The air tightened between us like it bore weight. It thickened with unsaid things with each passing second.

  “I’ve spent years protecting the people I love,” I said. “And somewhere along the way, I became hard to love. And now I’m failing to protect the one person who matters most.”

  She blinked slowly. Then walked back toward me. She came to a stop not as close as before, but close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin.

  “You’re not failing,” she whispered. “Anya is safe.”

  “But are you?” I asked, eyes locking with hers. “Am I?”

  “You are,” she claimed with foolish conviction. “I talked to Elira about her and Jet’s treatment of you. They were wrong, but their intention was to protect me, just like yours is to protect Anya. You three are actually not that different, you know?”

  I let out a sardonic breath, realizing she meant it as a compliment, but I couldn’t take it as such.

  “I trust them,” she continued. “And I wish you would too, at least when it comes to this, because there isn’t a scenario that connects Jet to Anya. Your sister has nothing to do with this.”

  “She has everything to do with this,” I gritted, her stubbornness getting the better of me. “And with you. Jet’s using my affection for you to get her.”

  She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “There’s nothing between us, Santos.”

  The yacht rocked slightly, the mattress shifting under me again as I leaned forward.

  “Isn’t there, or are you lying to yourself? You don’t scare easily, but the kiss we shared scared you. And the look in your eyes now scares me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing, Santos,” she said. “If this is some kind of game⁠—”

  “It’s not.”

  “But—”

  “Tell me you didn’t feel anything when you kissed me,” I said. “This thing between us—it’s been simmering for years. And now that I’ve tasted your lips, and you’ve tasted mine, it’s not going away.”

  She didn’t respond. Not with words.

  I reached out and touched her wrist with two fingers, light and steady.

  Her skin was warm. She didn’t pull away.

  “I’m not asking you to trust me,” I said. “But don’t run.”

  Her breath was shallow now, the rise and fall of her chest matching mine.

  “I’m not afraid of what’s between us,” I added. “You shouldn’t be either.”

  Her lips parted like she was going to argue, but then she moved—fast, decisive—and kissed me again. Harder this time. Hotter.

  Desperate.

  It wasn’t gentle. It was a crack in the dam, years of pressure rushing through. Her hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer, and I gripped her waist, dragging her against me despite the awkward twist of my cuffed wrist.

  The mattress groaned beneath us. The metal shackle on my other wrist scraped softly against the headboard.

  We only broke apart when we had to because we were too breathless.

  “This changes nothing,” she whispered, but her voice trembled.

  I smiled, just barely. “It changes everything. You’re chaos to my control. Don’t fear this thing between us, preciosa.”

  And this time, she didn’t argue.

  Instead, she fastened the cuff back around my wrist with a soft click and walked out the door.

  Amara

  The door snicked shut behind me, but the sound stayed lodged in my chest.

  I didn’t move. Not at first.

  My hand hovered next to me, fingers curled, body still too full of heat. Not just from him. From the truth of it all. I’d been walking this line for far too long, pretending the pull between us was friction instead of gravity, and today, it came to a head.

  I walked away from his cabin slowly, my body feeling raw now—stripped of the armor I’d grown accustomed to wearing.

  I’d kissed him.

  Even worse, I’d wanted it. Needed it.

  I was ready to let it shake something loose inside of me that I’d kept bolted down for years. Ever since we first crossed paths at D’Arc.

  And my mind flitted back to my first months on campus, and this enigmatic man—Gabriel—I kept running into.

  The sun struck the courtyard with merciless brilliance—too bright for comfort. The air smelled like freshly turned stone and ambition.

  I was in my third week.

  Long enough to make friends. Not long enough to know which ones I could trust.

  That’s when I saw him.

  He was leaning against the west archway near the archives wing, dressed in a dark three-piece suit. Older than most students, but not old enough to clearly mark him as faculty. His hands were in his pockets, his posture too relaxed for this place. He wasn’t watching the quad like a student at all—he was surveying it like a chessboard.

  “Hey, Santos!” a shout rang out across campus.

  He turned, flashing a smile that made my heart stutter.

  That’s when it clicked.

  Gabriel Santos.

  The only student turned professor on campus this semester—a strange arrangement cloaked in even stranger rumors. Heir to the Santos Cartel, raised by an aunt who was a journalist and a half brother who was a mobster. People whispered about him the way they whispered about blackmail: carefully, and only when they thought no one was listening.

  But the man leaning against the arch didn’t fit the image of a professor—or a criminal.

  He was too still. Too self-assured. Too charming.

  The way he watched people wasn’t idle. It was calculating. As if he already knew everyone’s next move—and found them predictable.

  Then his gaze shifted and found mine, holding it for a stretch of a moment.

  I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

  A flicker passed between us—not flirtation, not quite. More like recognition. Two hunters, spotting each other from across a clearing, each wondering who’d make the first move.

  Then he smirked. Barely.

  I turned away before the moment could stretch into something more. I had no time for trouble.

  Still, as I walked off, I felt his eyes on my back.

  He didn’t follow. He didn’t have to.

  Somehow, I already knew I’d see him again.

  And I was right.

  He’d be my silent, dark shadow for many years to come.

  Santos ended up playing the long game.

  He always knew how to spot things people tried to bury, and now he’d seen it in me. Worse, he’d named it.

  Desire. Chaos. Fear.

  Dammit, this wanting—especially when it came to someone like him—was a liability. Although deep down I knew he was right; it didn’t make me weak.

  Pretending I didn’t want him? That was what would break me.

  I pressed the heel of my hand to my chest, grounding myself in the steady thrum of my heart. Below deck, I could hear the men working away, the sound of metal clanking against metal.

  It served as a reminder of why we were here, and what we’d yet to accomplish.

  Pull yourself together, Amara.

  No sooner had I stepped into the office than the comms unit on my wrist buzzed—a sharp, needling vibration that felt more like a slap than a nudge. It startled me, slicing through my memory like ice water down the spine.

  Mom: Call us. Dad and I want to hear your voice.

  I stared at the message for a moment, jaw tight. The last thing I wanted was to hear their voices—warm, probing, and well-meaning, but inevitably dangerous in the state I was in.

  I was still reeling from what happened with Gabriel. Lying to them now would be like trying to thread a needle in the middle of a storm.

  But ignoring the message?

  That would only be worse. Silence was suspicious. Silence made them worry. And worried parents in my family didn’t just ask questions. They started pulling strings.

  I drew a slow breath and fished my phone from my jeans. The office was supposed to be soundproof, though the open windows undermined that illusion. Still, with the yacht floating in the middle of a calm, empty sea, the risk of anyone overhearing was more paranoia than reality.

  I flicked through my contacts until I landed on Dad. Calling him first was more of a strategic move on my part. He could be distracted.

  Dad was, after all, the reigning Kingpin in place of my mom, and the de facto head of the Irish Mafia for his family. That meant his calls were often interrupted and that was an advantage I could exploit if I played it right.

  Still, even that plan felt thin. I hesitated, thumb hovering over the call icon for a second or two before my finger pressed it.

  It took only two rings for my father to answer.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  My chest instantly warmed. My father wasn’t like most. He was warm, but also not overbearing. He worried about me, but also trusted me to take care of myself. Until my recent actions, I’d earned that trust.

  “Hey, Dad,” I greeted him, ignoring my guilty conscience. “Good time?”

  “For you? Always.”

  I smiled at his response.

  People always assumed I was like my mom, or even compared me to Mother Liana, but I liked to think I was more like my father. The two of us were two peas in a pod, our tempers always ruled by reason.

  “Mom texted, so I’m calling you.”

  “I hope that’s not the only reason.”

  “Of course not. I love talking to you and hearing your voice.”

  “How is backpacking going?” he asked. “Is it all you dreamt it would be as a little girl?”

  I’ve been talking about doing this for years, and my father had always been supportive despite my mom’s worries. It was the reason I agreed to delay backpacking until I was a bit older.

  “It is even better, Dad,” I answered. “Everyone should do it at least once in their lifetime.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t imagine your mama backpacking Europe.”

  The image made me laugh too. “Yeah, me neither, but she might enjoy it. I know you definitely would.”

  “Ahhh, speak of the devil,” Dad said. “Álainn, our daughter is on the phone.”

  For as long as I remembered, my dad called Mom beautiful in Gaelic, and treated her like he really believed that. Their love story might be unconventional, but it was a love story nonetheless.

  “Your mom’s about to snatch the phone from me,” he said with humor lacing his voice. “I love you, and hurry back home. We miss you, sweetie.”

  “I will,” I said, although I wasn’t sure if I had any business making that promise.

  “Amara, sweetie,” Mom’s voice filled the line. “Liana’s worried about you, and now I am too. Is everything okay?”

  I should have known it would somehow lead back to Mother Liana.

  “Of course, everything’s fine. Did she say why she’s worried?”

  Mom’s laugh sounded somewhat forced. “You know her, she’s always scared something is happening.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, unfortunately it’s the side effect of her name and power.”

  “It is,” Mom agreed. “But she isn’t often wrong either.”

  “I swear I’m fine.” It was best not to comment on Mom’s latter statement. “You and Dad would be the first people I’d call if I wasn’t.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.” I could hear the smile in her voice. Two heartbeats passed before she continued. “You know, sometimes I worry about you having to take over for your father. I wish… I don’t know… I know you’re capable of doing it, I just wish you didn’t have to.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced those thoughts. She was happier being the pillar, Dad’s helper, and thought I would be too. She might be right, but there wasn’t an alternative, so it made no sense to ponder on it. But Mom sure did enough for the both of us.

  “Well, unless you marry,” she added pensively.

  I groaned. “Mom, really?”

  “Well, it’s a thought. I know you’re independent and strong, and you can take over for your father all on your own, but it’d be easier with a husband by your side to share the load.”

  My sexy Colombian prisoner flashed in my mind, but I instantly shut it down. Marriage wasn’t on my agenda, and I certainly wasn’t going to entertain it while going through this mess. Besides, I was fairly certain I’d extinguished any chance I’d had with Gabriel when I kidnapped him.

  “I know you want me to find what you have with Dad,” I said slowly, “and I hope it’s in my cards one day, but it’s nowhere on the horizon right now so…”

  “But you’re open to it?” she questioned.

  “Yeah, sure,” I stated matter-of-factly, although I wasn’t so certain that I was. But it was what my mom wanted to hear, and her next words confirmed it.

  “I’m glad you’re keeping an open mind.” Her voice practically bubbled with delight and it made me smile. “With the right person beside you, it makes all the difference.”

  “I know, Mom. I see it every day with you and Dad.”

  “You’ll find that too,” she stated confidently. “I just want you to be happy.”

  I chuckled. “I don’t need a man to be happy.”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. “But an equal partner is nice.”

  We exchanged a few more words and then I ended the call with a small smile, but my reprieve was cut short when my phone buzzed again.

  Mother Liana: FaceTime me.

  I groaned, not wanting to talk to her.

  The universe, with its impeccable timing, had chosen this precise hour to unleash everything at once.