The beach should’ve been peaceful.

Private coastline. No reporters. No threats. Just heat on skin, salt in the breeze, and the rare sound of laughter from men who were usually covered in blood and secrets. Even the ocean didn’t dare get too loud.

You stood ankle-deep in the water, sun caught in your hair, one hand shielding your eyes as Vaughn Morozov said something that made you laugh—too loud, too free. He flashed that easy, arrogant grin and splashed water toward your legs, cocky and careless as always.

Jeremy saw it all.

From his place beneath the umbrella—untouched drink sweating beside him, book unopened in his lap—his eyes never left you. Not even for a second.

He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

Not when Killian launched Gareth headfirst into a wave. Not when Nikolai handed him a cigar and muttered something in Russian that probably wasn’t kind. Not even when Vaughn caught you by the waist and spun you once, water glinting off your legs as you swatted at his chest.

Jeremy’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed once—slow and deliberate—like he was holding himself together with nothing but will.

You belonged to him.

Not just in bed, not just in theory—but fully. Entirely. And still, you were out there, smiling like you didn’t notice the fire burning behind his calm.

When you finally looked toward shore, Jeremy’s gaze pinned you where you stood. There was no smile on his face. Just heat. Possession.

Warning.

Your heart stuttered.

You knew that look.

The others didn’t feel it. But you did.

The moment you got within reach, Jeremy wouldn’t be patient anymore.

And God help anyone who touched what was his again.