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Brock smiled and reached up to help her down the ladder, letting his hands linger on her waist. Playing the part.
“Play it up in public,” he whispered, kissing her ear.
The gesture sent an unexpected shiver through her, but she recovered quickly. She smiled and said, “Behave yourself, Robert.”
Nate swept up her bag and waved them forward. “Let’s go, lovebirds. Time to hit paradise.”
Chapter Eight
The resort’s night manager was professional and discreet. The lobby wrapped around them like a hushed embrace—all travertine floors in soft cream, their surfaces polished to a buttery gleam that caught and reflected the warm glow from copper light fixtures overhead. The ceiling soared two stories high, open to a second-floor gallery where more rooms looked down on the entrance. Enormous potted palms stood in bronze planters, their fronds reaching toward skylights that would flood the space with sun during the day but now showed only stars.
The air smelled of white flowers—plumeria, jasmine, something else Elena couldn’t name—mixed with the faint saline tang of ocean carried on the breeze through open walls that faced the beach. Water features created a soft background music, fountains trickling over river rock, the sound designed to soothe, to lull, to make guests forget the world beyond this carefully curated paradise.
A few couples moved through the space with the languid grace of people on vacation time, no schedules, no urgency. A woman laughed softly at something her companion said, the sound floating up to the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere deeper in the resort, music played—something with guitars and a steady rhythm that spoke of warm nights and cold drinks and nothing more dangerous than choosing between the pool or the beach.
It was beautiful. It was a lie.
Elena felt the disconnect like a physical sensation—her body standing in this peaceful luxury while her mind was already in Mexico, already in that temple, already calculating how to trade herself for Marguerite. The resort’s tranquility felt obscene against what was coming, like attending a garden party while a hurricane gathered offshore.
Mira pulled away from the entrance, heading back to wherever Dynamis had arranged for her to stay near the airfield. Nate and Eden’s suite was across a small courtyard from theirs—close enough to coordinate, far enough for privacy.
“See you in the morning,” Eden said. “Get some sleep.”
Then Brock was opening their door, and Elena stepped into a space designed for romance and luxury in equal measure.
The suite was beautiful—she registered that much. Cream walls, dark wood furniture, the scent of orchids. Floor-to-ceiling windows stood open to a terrace where she could hear the ocean. But exhaustion pulled at her so heavily that the details blurred together.
“Shower or sleep?” Brock asked.
“Shower. I feel disgusting.”
She grabbed her bag and retreated to the bathroom, where she stood under water hot enough to turn her skin pink, washing away the travel grime and some of the tension that had lived in her shoulders for days. When she emerged in cotton pajamas with her damp hair pulled into a braid, Brock was on the terrace, phone to his ear.
He ended the call when he saw her. “That was Nick. Everything’s quiet on their end.”
Elena nodded, too tired for conversation. She climbed into bed—and God, it was like sinking into clouds. Her body went boneless almost immediately.
She felt the bed dip as Brock slipped in beside her, felt his warmth at her back.
“This okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were already closing. “Don’t want to be alone.”
His arm came around her waist, careful and gentle, and she let herself sink into sleep.
Morning came with brilliant sunshine and the distant sound of waves. Elena woke slowly, awareness returning in layers—the unfamiliar bed, the scent of ocean air, the warmth of Brock’s body curved around hers.
She turned her head to find him already awake, watching her with an expression that made her stomach flutter.
“Morning,” he said.
“How long have you been awake?”
“A while.” His hand traced lazy circles on her hip, the touch casual but somehow intimate. “You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to move.”
She should probably feel awkward about waking up next to him. Should put some distance between them, reestablish professional boundaries.
Instead, she found herself turning toward him, her hand coming up to touch his face. The rasp of morning stubble beneath her palm sent unexpected heat through her.
