Page 89 of Pack Frenzy
When Cassian finally declares me “legally awesome” at staying on thirty seconds, I help him drag the board onto the sand. My muscles ache, but in that earned, alive way—the kind that comes from doing instead of surviving.
As we haul the board higher, his swim trunks shift, and I catch a glimpse of pale, jagged skin along his upper thigh. A long, warped crescent, like something took a bite and the surgeon did their best to pretend it never happened.
“Whoa,” I say before I can stop myself. “What happened there?”
Cassian glances down, then huffs a humorless little laugh. “Tiger shark, when I was nineteen. Thought I was invincible, the ocean disagreed.”
“Seriously?” My stomach does a weird flip. “And you still surf?”
“Sure.” He shrugs, but there’s tension in it. “Scares the shit out of me every time I go out past my waist.” He nudges the board upright, using it as a prop so he doesn’t have to look at me. “My dad was in the Coast Guard. I grew up seeing the real aftermath—bites, boats flipped, idiots who thought rules didn’t apply to them. I know exactly what the water can do.”
I look at the scar again, at how clean the edges are in some places and how ragged in others. “So… why keep doing it?”
He hesitates, then meets my eyes. There’s something raw in his expression that he mostly hides with a crooked grin. “Because letting the sharks win feels worse than being afraid.” His hand brushes his thigh once, absent, like the memory itches. “Got a surgery to make this pretty, but didn’t bother completely covering it up—like a badge. It still aches when storms roll in. But I’d rather hurt and keep getting back on the board than sit on the sand pretending I’m not still thinking about it.”
“That’s…” I swallow, throat tight. “Kind of badass.”
His grin softens. “It’s stubborn. The badass part is you, trouble.”
My chest does that stupid squeeze thing again. I look away first, toward the blankets.
Eli has already colonized the cooler—sandwiches in neat rows, fruit glistening with condensation. He hands me a bottle. “Hydrate. You’re pink, but not lawsuit-pink.”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
“My faith is in SPF 50,” he deadpans, though the smile hiding in it gives him away.
Then Eli starts handing out sandwiches and fruit.
While we eat, Cassian reenacts getting dragged down a beach as a kid, full of elbows and outrage. Firelight jumps over the thorns and skulls inked along his arms, turning the dark bands on his skin into something wild and sharp.
Rowan tops it with a story about his cousin and a picnic table that caught fire twice. Eli throws in a perfectly timed rip-current fact that makes Cassian groan and me snort so hard I choke on melon.
I let the moment hold me—no calculations, no bracing. These three keep handing me napkins and jokes and water likeI’mthe point. It settles warm in my chest. Dangerous. And good.
Dusk leans in. The sky melts from apricot to tangerine; light softens to honey. Rowan builds a fire in an iron ring, arranging paper and sticks with the kind of focus that makes his brows knit. I want to smooth the crease with my thumb.
“Marshmallows,” Eli says, pulling skewers from a towel he’d rolled like an oblong pillow.
Rowan points at Eli. “Grahams for you. You burn marshmallows.”
“I do excellent caramelization,” Eli says, right before setting my marshmallow on fire. He blows it out fast, eyes wide. “For you—a crème brûlée.”
“It’s fine. Actually, I prefer them this way.” I peel the char, find the center molten and perfect.
Cassian’s marshmallow slides off and hisses into the coals. He swears, then Rowan toasts him another to textbook gold and hands it over without a word.
“You’re a menace,” Cassian says.
“I’m efficient.”
“That’s the menace.”
My Graham Cracker breaks. Chocolate melts warm over my thumb. I lick it off on reflex, and everything stops.
No leer, no move—just three males who’ve stilled, desire coiling low in the air.
“What?” I ask, too quickly. My pulse trips.
