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17
SHANEL
Tequila-filled shot glasses wait in sharp rows like tiny soldiers heading into battle.
We’re sitting in a spacious lounge area—a section of the boat that was conveniently forgotten when Hawk was looking for a seat at dinner.
Beautiful string lights hover along the deck.
Plush sofas. Fluffy pillows.
Fluttery white curtains. Throw blankets.
Platters of strawberry and chocolate.
Music plays from hidden speakers set up around the dock.
It’s jazzy.
Romantic.
Fits the gorgeous sunset to a T.
The view steals my breath. Rays of light paint fluffy clouds pink, red and orange. Giant birds circle the sky, their calls echoing over choppy waves.
Hawk sits beside me, his body sheltering me from the wind. Broad shoulders brush mine. One arm hovers over the back of the sofa, a breath away from my neck. His searing blue eyes lock on me.
I glare at him.
He smirks in return.
Touches the curl dangling over my cheek.
Glances up again you’re mine.
I narrow my eyes I’m not.
His lips tilt up in arrogant dismissal. It’s so damn annoying. Every move he makes seems to scream that one phrase.
You are mine.
When he pulled me into his lap at dinner. You’re mine.
When he rubbed his thumb over my thigh and hip. You’re mine.
Every gaze—
Every touch—
He’s not claiming me anymore.
He’s reminding me.
Securing the chain a little tighter.
You belong to me.
My chest rises and falls as I struggle to keep my guard up. He smells like cologne and sea salt.
