Page 97 of Wrathful
Gage’s jaw tightens. “Watch it.”
I laugh softly, still catching my breath as I glance over Rafe’s shoulder. Not even Bishop’s barbs can bring me down right now.
Gage is treading water a few feet away, one brow lifted, mouth curved like he’s enjoying this far too much.
“You guys done hiding over here?” he asks. “Or do I need to start keeping score?”
Rafe turns just enough to look at him, his arm still tight around me. “Are you and Cruz teaming up on me now?”
“Hell yeah we are,” Cruz says, splashing water at Rafe. “Didn’t you just say it was a game?”
Rafe loosens his hold just enough for me to move, but his hand lingers at my waist like he’s not fully ready to let go.
Cruz closes the distance next, not touching me this time, but close enough that I feel the shift in the air between all three of them.
“Are you done, Bell?”
I push off Rafe before anyone else can answer, water sliding down my arms as I swim toward the rocks.
“I’m not done,” I say. “Are you?”
My gaze flicks between all of them, one by one.
Rafe’s mouth curves first, something sharp and satisfied in it. “Not even close.”
Gage exhales a quiet laugh, already moving. “Yeah, we’re not done.”
Cruz drags a hand through his hair, water slicking it back as he watches me for a second longer than he should. “I’m just getting started.”
It all sounds like a challenge—or maybe a promise.
Bishop just shakes his head once, but he’s already turning toward the climb.
That’s good enough for me.
We move together this time, all climbing the rocks back up to the top. My muscles burn more now, the earlier jumps catching up to me, but it only makes everything feel sharper, more immediate.
Alive.
By the time we reach the top, my pulse races, skin buzzing with adrenaline, the wind a cool caress as the sun sinks lower over the shimmering water, painting everything in hues of gold and orange.
“Together?” I ask, glancing sideways at them, searching their faces for a sign.
Rafe nods, slipping into place beside me with that familiar intensity, his presence grounding. Gage settles on my other side, easy and warm, the kind of comfort I’ve always relied on. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice steady as rock.
Cruz moves in without a word, close enough that I can feel his heat radiating against me, a silent promise of camaraderie. Bishop stands at the edge, framing the scene with his steady, watchful gaze.
I push aside any anxious thoughts. This moment isn’t for overthinking; it’s for living.
Our footfalls pound against the rocky ground, the rush of wind amplifying as the edge draws nearer.
And then, we leap.
The drop hits harder this time—not because it’s higher, but because it’s us, all of us, together.
The wind tears past, the ocean rising to meet us in one endless, dark rush. For a split second, everything synchs up—movement, breath, bodies, timing.
It’s perfect.
