E L A R A

The roar of the crowd follows me long after I leave the sand. Praise, camera flashes, murmurs of hero cling like salt to my skin, but the truth is heavier. My shoulder throbs with every step, a sharp reminder of the skiff crash and how close it came. I duck into the locker room at the edge of the clinic where the tiles are cool, fluorescent lights humming, the silence almost a mercy. For the first time all day, it’s just me and the ache I can’t ignore.

I peel my damp top down to the straps, hissing when the fabric tugs the tender muscle of my shoulder. The scrape runs angry and raw, blood dried in jagged streaks where the board’s edge caught me. I’m reaching for the antiseptic kit when the door clicks open behind me.

Adrian.

He doesn’t announce himself, just steps inside like he owns the air, closing the door with a quiet finality that makes my pulse skip. His shirt sleeves are rolled, tie gone, dark hair still damp from the spray of the sea. He holds a med kit in one hand, gaze sharp enough to pin me where I sit.

“You should’ve had this treated hours ago,” he says, voice low but threaded with something rougher than command.

I stiffen. “I’ve had worse.”

He sets the kit on the bench beside me, crouching until he’s eye-level, so close I can see flecks of sea-glass green in his irises. “You don’t have to prove you’re indestructible, Elara. Not to me.”

The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, their hum matching the low throb in my shoulder. I should wave him off, insisting I can handle a simple dressing myself, but the truth is my fingers tremble, not from fear, but from the exhaustion of holding everyone else together all day.

Adrian doesn’t move until I exhale, a sound that betrays too much. Only then does he snap the kit open, movements crisp, almost clinical. Gauze, saline, tape. No hesitation, no wasted motion. He could’ve been a surgeon in another life, I think fleetingly, before remembering he’d never let anyone else’s heartbeat command his own.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, dousing the cloth with saline. The cold sting when it touches my skin makes me hiss, and his gaze flicks up instantly, sharp with apology. “Easy. Just a flush.”

I want to tell him I’ve done this a hundred times, that I don’t need him steadying me, but his palm comes to rest just under my shoulder blade, warm through the thin fabric of my tank, anchoring me to the bench. The pressure is firm, careful, intimate in a way that shouldn’t unravel me but does.

“You put yourself in front of everyone today,” he says quietly, voice pitched lower, almost as if he doesn’t mean for me to hear. “Even when you shouldn’t have.”

I bite back a retort, because there’s no heat in his words, only something that sounds dangerously like admiration. My throat tightens. “It’s my job.”

“It’s more than that,” he counters, his thumb brushing just slightly when he adjusts the gauze. Not intentional, maybe. But I feel it everywhere.

He smooths the last strip of tape into place, fingertips grazing my skin in a way that feels far less accidental now. His breath stirs against my temple as he leans closer to inspect the dressing, and the proximity is dizzying.

“Good,” he murmurs, so near the word vibrates against my ear. “You’ll heal clean.”

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it rushes out shaky. His hand lingers just a moment too long on my shoulder, thumb brushing the curve of bone, and my body betrays me, heat spreading low, a pulse I can’t control.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly, eyes flicking down to my hands braced on the bench.

“It’s nothing.” The denial is automatic, brittle.

His gaze sharpens, but his voice softens. “It’s not nothing.”

The air between us hums, thick and fragile. His palm slides from my shoulder to cradle the side of my neck, warm and steady, thumb resting just under my jaw. The contact steals every ounce of argument from me. My pulse hammers against his touch, traitorous, loud enough I’m certain he feels it.

I should move. I should break the moment before it becomes something I can’t excuse. But when he leans in, close enough that his lips almost brush mine, I don’t retreat. I tip forward, caught in the gravity of him, the scent of salt and clean linen, the way his breath mingles with mine.

My eyes flutter shut. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to know I would let him.

“Adrian…” His name escapes me, raw, half-warning, half-plea.

He exhales sharply, forehead coming to rest against mine instead of closing the final inch. His restraint hits harder than any kiss could.

“If I start,” he whispers, wrecked and low, “I won’t stop.”

His hand doesn’t leave my skin. Instead, it slides higher, fingers threading lightly into the hair at my nape, and every nerve ending sparks alive. I should push him away. I should remind myself of every warning, every scar Nathan left behind. Compassion makes you weak. Need makes you foolish. Desire blinds you.

But Adrian doesn’t feel blindness. He feels like clarity.

The fluorescent light above us hums, the only sound besides my ragged breathing and the deliberate steadiness of his own. His thumb strokes once against the hollow beneath my ear, slow and reverent, as though he’s memorizing the fragile thrum of my pulse.

“Elara…” My name on his lips is softer than I’ve ever heard it, stripped of arrogance, of command. Just a man saying my name like it matters.

The weight of it buckles me. I sway into him without meaning to, the bench edge biting into the backs of my thighs as his chest brushes mine. Our mouths hover in the space where choice lives, half an inch, no more.

I inhale him: salt, clean linen, something distinctly him, sharp and warm. It makes me reckless. My lips part, searching.

He tilts in, breath mingling, a ghost of contact brushing my lower lip—, hen freezes. His jaw flexes, his breath stutters, and he curses under it.

“God help me,” he rasps, voice shaking, “I want you too much to take you here.”

My body burns at the admission, a flame that spreads through my veins. My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, betraying how badly I wish he wouldn’t stop.

The ache of restraint slices deeper than any wound on my shoulder.

The silence between us is taut as wire, stretched to the breaking point. His forehead is still against mine, my breath catching in shallow bursts, when the door slams open.

We spring apart.

Ethan fills the doorway, his frame broad enough to block the hall behind him. His eyes flick once to my bared shoulder, the gauze still fresh beneath Adrian’s hand, then to the inches of space we left between us. He doesn’t comment, but the weight of his stare says he noticed everything.

“Not here,” he says, voice flat, carved in stone.

Adrian straightens, tension rippling through his shoulders, mask sliding back into place. “This better be worth interrupting.”

“It is.” Ethan’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We traced the stolen keycard.”

The locker room feels colder, the hum of fluorescent lights suddenly too loud. I tug my top higher on instinct, but my pulse is still racing from Adrian’s touch.

Adrian’s jaw tightens. “Who?”

Ethan hesitates only a beat. “It belongs to an aide. From within the family.”

The words thud in the air like dropped stone.

Adrian’s entire body goes still, as if bracing for an impact only he can see. His eyes cut toward me, unreadable, then back to Ethan. “Be precise.”

Ethan nods once, slow, deliberate. “Your cousin’s aide. The one assigned to handle logistics last quarter.”

The world tilts. My breath catches, the sharp sting in my shoulder nothing compared to the ache twisting in my chest. This isn’t an outsider sneaking onto docks under cover of night. This is sabotage from inside their bloodline.

Adrian swears under his breath, low and vicious. His fist curls, then opens again like he’s forcing restraint back into his body. For a heartbeat, I glimpse the storm he’s holding down—the betrayal, the fury, the dangerous edge of family loyalty turned into a weapon.

My voice comes out quieter than I expect. “So it really is someone close.”

Ethan’s gaze shifts to me, steady, unreadable. “Closer than you think.”

The silence that follows is louder than applause, louder than the surf beyond these walls. I can feel Adrian beside me, burning with anger he doesn’t yet know where to place. And I can feel my own fear, sharp and real, because if betrayal has roots inside the Valcrosse dynasty, then none of us are safe.