Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

He nods repeatedly.

Over and over.

We draw together. Chest to chest. His arms weave across my back, his rigid body not slackening. And I feel his pulse racing.

I whisper against his ear, “You’re safe, wolf scout.” I kiss his jaw, and he grips my neck with a shuddered breath.

“Fuck,” Maximoff growls, pinching his eyes. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. And he screams. An angered, tormented noise barrels out of him. All this caged emotion is muffled against my shoulder and neck—and I hold him. Fuck, I’m not letting go.

I clutch him more securely. So he feels like nothing and no one will breach this embrace.

My pulse thumps hard, and his hot involuntary tears soak my skin.

I whisper in his ear. Until he eases, and his breath matches my breath. It takes minutes. Not seconds, but actual minutes. I would’ve stood here like this for hours if he needed me to.

And when he raises his head, rubbing the corners of his reddened eyes—he sees the wet deck through the glass.

His face drops. “Did it rain?”

Maximoff.

I tell him I wasn’t alone. I tell him that I love him. I tell him not to worry because I’m not worried about it, and he lets me hold more of his weight.

Earlier today when Maximoff said that he didn’t like Rowin being onboard—because he feared for my safety—I should’ve taken that into account more. I just brushed it off because I thought Rowin would only antagonize me. Not him.

Never him.

As soon as Maximoff shared his unease, I should’ve had Rowin’s ass on land.

I won’t make that mistake again.

36

MAXIMOFF HALE

Our cabin almost seems to sway with the rocking boat. Waves crash against the window, and despite all the bad that’s happened today, this right here is peaceful.

Farrow and I are intertwined together on the full-sized bed, and I can’t tell you if I’m holding him or if he’s holding me. We’ve been like this for an hour. Softly talking. Sometimes just staring. Letting the night slow with our breaths.

When we’re both at a better place, I lean over his chest and reach for the letter on the nightstand, using my left arm. Someone, probably Beckett, shoved it under the crack of our door about five minutes ago. And I’ve been craving to read it ever since.

“Do you want me to read it out loud?” I ask Farrow. He runs a hand under my T-shirt and rubs my back, his palm warm against my skin.

His lips lift. “I wrote it, wolf scout. I know what it says.”

“Thanks, I retract my offer.” I fall back onto my spine, the mattress bouncing. Our limbs have been wrestling with the navy sheets; we’re all entwined in them. I stuff another pillow under my head. More supported but still lying down.

In a swift, seamless movement, Farrow rolls on his side and props his head with his hand. Elbow to the pillow. Facing me, he asks, “Would you like me to leave the room?” His smile widens. “Give you some private time.”

“What kind of letter is this, man?”

“According to your cousins,” he says. “A really fucking great one.”

I eye him for a second, dipping into my churning thoughts. “Do you care that almost everyone in my family has already read it?” Maybe this isn’t something he wanted to be passed around.

His lips press to mine, a brief, loving kiss, before he whispers, “I knew when I gave it to Beckett that I’d be giving it to your whole family. I’m good with that.”

I stare at the folded piece of paper. You need to know that despite all the doomsdays and all the apocalypses—excitement still bursts in my chest.

Right now.

Because of him.

I didn’t think I’d feel this tonight, not after everything, but here I am. Pretty damn close to smiling, and I haven’t even read the letter.

Farrow hooks his leg with mine, growing quiet while he watches me unfold the paper. About to read his words.

His handwriting is long and fluid, as casual as he is.

Dear Beckett,

You once asked if I had something to hide. And in so little words, I replied by telling you to stay out of my relationship. Looking back, I should have said something different.

I should have told you that I’m a private person. That the idea of anyone digging into my relationship was both foreign and uncomfortable. When it came to my past boyfriends, my father asked the bare minimum. Being confronted by you was a lesson in love—a different kind that I’d never known.

I should have told you that I’m in love with him. An indescribable kind of love. And I realize now, loving Maximoff entirely means letting his family in. Because the day that I’m the reason there’s tension between him and you is the day I’ve failed him.

I should have told you that my mother isn’t going to be here for my future. For a wedding or kids. I’ve known that since I was four. But what I also know is that every day that goes by, I live to make her proud. And the only way I know how to do that is to live for love and to ensure that wherever I go, whatever I do, I am fulfilled.

I should have told you that without him, my life would be empty.

I should have told you that I’m prideful, and I would never admit that I had things to learn. But I did. And still do. He’s already taught me more than enough about goodness, morality, and unconditional love. But I still hope for a future where that doesn’t end. Where he’s still teaching me things that I’ll tell you I’d already known.

I should have told you that I care about what you think. And I want you to trust me with him. One day, I hope you can.

Sincerely,

Farrow Redford Keene

My breath deepens, eyes burning. People talk about grand gestures, but this one feels monumental and immeasurably gigantic. And I know this letter was for Beckett and my family, but I think he knew it would be for me, too.

I fold the letter back, creasing the seams. He runs his fingers through the thicker pieces of my hair.

Words. So many damn words are jumbled in my head but none feel right. So I just blurt out, “You underlined I’m in love with him.” My voice is choked.

“Yeah, I did that,” he nods, his gaze roping me in. Like I’m being tugged beneath serene water, swimming. Swimming. Alive.

I lean over, hand to his cheek, and my mouth crushes against his mouth with deep, deep emotion that pools hot inside of me. Deepening the kiss, I push my body into him, and a noise catches in his throat.

He rolls on top of me, our breaths and bodies colliding together.

Next morning, the sun hasn’t risen yet. But I’m awake and semi-ready for a pre-planned training session with Sulli off the yacht. I’m not bailing on the ultra-marathon next month.

Which means I need to move my ass and run.

I say semi-ready because I’m kind of, sort of, exhausted from my tornado of a birthday. I’ve never had a hangover. But this has to be close to the feeling.

I breathe easier knowing Rowin is gone and fired. SFO kicked him off the boat last night, and I heard he took a flight back to Philly. Thankfully Farrow has a high immunity against regret and remorse, and I’m so damn happy that he’s not eaten up with blame for Rowin’s actions. For most shit storms, he maintains a not happening again attitude and moves forward with me.

The two of us—we’re fueling a lot of family drama and gossip these days. And by gossip, I mean they’re all just whispering the truth.

“What the ever loving fuck?” Sulli gawks back at me. “Is snot running out of your nose?”

I rub my sweaty, snot-running face with the bottom of my green muscle shirt and then spit a wad of phlegm. Drop-dead-gorgeous, me. Clearly marriage quality, me.

Struggling to run up all 588 steps of the Karavolades Stairs in the Cyclades Islands, me again.

As the sun begins to crest the Aegean Sea, warm light bathes the winding, cobbled stairs that stretch up a rocky cliffside. Starting at the seaport, Sullivan, Akara, Farr

ow, Jack, my bodyguard, and I have been ascending the weaving steps towards the town Fira, the capital of Santorini.

My endurance is up to par. What’s really kicking my ass is the cobbled ground. The hard, uneven terrain beneath my soles sends shockwaves up my body. Rattling my shoulders and my slowly healing collarbone in this imperceptible, painful way.

“I’m not dying,” I say confidently to Sulli, who has braked three stairs ahead of me. Her Camp Calloway baseball cap shades her green eyes from the growing light. She uses the pitstop to stretch her muscular arm across her chest.

My cousin is not even winded.

Whereas Akara and Farrow are panting, both drenched in sweat and catching their breaths. Jack is also beat, but he has the added weight of a light steadicam contraption attached to his chest.

All four stare down at me like Stubborn Fool is written in bold letters across my forehead. Farrow, in particular, has been eyeing me with a bucket load of concern but also amusement.

“I’m keeping up,” I add. “Go, don’t stop.” I start back up into a jog.

And they follow suit before I can even pass them.

If this were a race, I wouldn’t be in last. My bodyguard has fallen way behind. Bruno is in really good shape for fifty-two, but he’s bulkier than us, his muscle mass weighing him down.

Each pounding step is a razor blade. And a jolt of pain.

For Christ’s sake, my stomach churns. And the switchbacks, the constant curving of the steps, don’t help defeat nausea.

Keep up with Farrow. I repeat that mantra. Focusing on that, I start closing the gap. He runs at Akara’s brisk pace, Sulli outracing them by two stairs.

I try harder. Sweat dripping down my temples.

I go faster. Breath blazing in my burning lungs.

But no matter how far I strain my muscles, how much I push, how much pain I endure, it’s not good enough. It’s not where I need to be for Sulli.