Page 4 of Axel Martin

I set my coffee down with a sigh. “Guys, this is Lark Bennet.”

“Is she your cousin or something?” Rush asked, already grinning.

“She’s the woman who parked a trailer on a lightning magnet and danced on the roof during a category two thunderstorm,” I deadpanned.

Jack arched a brow. “So… she’s your type?”

Lark raised her mug. “Hi. I chase storms. Axel says he saved my life, so we are here.”

All three of them stared at her, then at me.

“She’s leaving as soon as the roads are clear,” I muttered.

“Unless I decide to stick around,” Lark added, tilting her head. “I hear there’s good lightning here.”

Cooper leaned toward Rush. “He’s so screwed.”

Rush nodded. “Totally.”

5

Axel

Idon’t invite chaos into my life. Ever. Which made what I did next feel like a full-body cramp.

“You can’t go back to the field,” I said, arms crossed, watching her toss her duffel into the back of that old Airstream like she was packing for a beach weekend, not prepping to flirt with death again.

She didn’t even look at me. “Why not? Eggs is charged. Winds are calm. I’ve got at least a two-day window.”

“Because you already got lucky once,” I said, stepping closer, “and next time, I might not be there to tackle you off a damn roof.”

She paused, then turned to face me, brow arched. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“You’re a reckless pain in my ass.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“God help me,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “Look. There’s a side lot behind the SEAL building. It’s got hookups. Security. Gravel. You can park there for now.”

She blinked. “Wait—are you inviting me to camp behind a military-grade SEAL headquarters?”

“I’m offering you a secure place to park your glorified toaster. Temporarily.”

“Temporarily,” she repeated, smiling like she’d just tricked me into adopting a cat. “And what’s the catch?”

“No chaos,” I said sharply. “No filming the guys. No chasing storms within twenty miles of base. And no drones buzzing the team during drills.”

She held up a hand, mock solemn. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Details.”

Lark’s Airstreamlooked ridiculous parked next to the row of blacked-out trucks and gear trailers behind the compound.

Didn’t bother her one bit.

She set up camp like she’d won the damn lottery—folding chair, solar lanterns, a weathered “Storm HQ” sign proudly hung on the door like it was her castle.

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