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  I swallow hard, thinking about her. Hating the thought of her being somewhere she doesn’t wanna be.

  “You okay, Beam?” Marley asks.

  “Been better.”

  “Bout a girl?” she asks, smiling. “Cause I tell you what, up here in Alaska, when a man looks all sad like you do, it’s usually about a girl.”

  “Not a girl. The girl.”

  Marley wipes down the counter, then leans in. “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s the kind of girl who was raised by the city, by true grit. Survival skills were her second language and she went to the school of hard knocks.”

  “Sounds like a tough cookie.”

  “Yeah, you’d think so, but somehow, when it came to other women who were maybe in a worse spot then her, she’d always be there for them. Always give them a shoulder to cry on, the shirt off her back. She’s a hard ass, but she’s also soft as sugar. Just doesn’t have many chances to show that side of herself off.”

  Marley blinks back tears. “Gosh, you’re making me cry. Now tell me, Beam, why on God’s green earth are you here, and not with this treasure?”

  “I never had the balls to make a move.”

  Marley twists her lips. “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Before you were an Alaskan mountain man with his own fishing boat.”

  I chuckle. And I’m not the sort of man who chuckles. “Yeah?”

  I’m a big guy with lots of tattoos, a few too many piercings and a grunt more often than a laugh. I’m not the man that turns heads — instead I turn necks by breaking them. But Marley seems to think differently. Maybe Bellamy will too.

  “So you’re off tomorrow to find the one who got away?” she asks as another customer slides onto a stool at the bar.

  “Yeah, I am, and this time, I won’t let her walk away,” I say with more resolve than I’ve ever felt before.

  “Good luck, Beam,” Marley says. “Someday, come back and let me meet the happy couple.”

  I leave cash on the bar and begin to walk away. Through the window, something catches my eye.

  No.

  It’s can’t be.

  Can it?

  Well, it fucking is.

  I pull open the door, watching as she walks down the street with a man’s tight grip on her wrist. He has long, strong dark hair and a snarl.

  I watch as they walk toward a bar down the street, and I follow close behind.

  But not too close. The last thing I want to do is cause a scene.

  I was a bodyguard for a decade — I know how to get control of a situation. How to use force to get what I want.

  Without causing them to turn, I make a move, shoving the man down an alley, his face against a brick wall. I pull him around, pummel his face until he’s knocked out, then I drop him to the pavement.

  She shrieks, reaching for her bag, stepping away, watching me — her eyes wide as she registers who I am.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not again… not Maker’s men.”

  She starts to run.

  But I just told Marley I wouldn’t let her get away. I reach for her, covering her mouth with my hand.

  This wasn’t the plan — but I suppose fate had other ideas. It’s dark, late, and we’re alone. I grab her hand and pull her down the pier, to the dock where my boat is.

  She’s crying, shouting, trying to get away.

  She thinks I’m the enemy when really, I’m her chance at freedom. Because that man she was with was holding her like he wasn’t letting go.

  Chapter Four

  Bellamy

  It’s dark and I’m disoriented… flung on a boat, taken by a man whose face is downcast, turned from me as he starts the engine. I have no idea what he wants from me, but I’m too scared to ask.

  John is a bad man. But a bad man I understand, a man I could handle. Of course I didn't want to go with him on some unknown adventure to meet my long-lost father, who was also a criminal, but it's better than this. Better than having to watch him being beaten within an inch of his life. Better than being tossed on a stranger’s boat.

  We're pulling out of the dock. The marina is in the distance, and I blink hard as tears fall down my cheeks. I am not a crier, but right now there's no holding back. The wind whips around my dark hair and my heart pounds, wishing the chaos of my life would stop. I am so tired of living in a thunderstorm with the rain clouds overhead. I want to be on a tropical island somewhere, or really just any island, a quiet one with blue skies and sunflowers and birds perched on a windowsill. I want a fantasy.

  "Hey," he calls, "put on a life vest." He points to the bench beside me and I reach for the vest, clipping it on. Of course, I don't want to follow orders, but I also don't want to die. Not now, not like this, not with a stranger. Except, when he turns, when I get a better look at him, I realize he's not a stranger at all.

  "Beam," I say, my stomach crawling with terror.

  This can't be happening.

  This can't be real.

  He grits his teeth, grunts something I can't quite decipher, and he turns back to the wheel. Anger flares inside my chest and I want to scream. I want to pound my fist against his chest. I want to make him suffer. And why shouldn’t I? He watched me suffer for years.

  I have so many questions. How did he find me? Why did he take me? It makes no sense. He was Maker's right hand man. Maker, the man who made my life a living hell, and now I'm on a boat with his heavy.

  A thought dawns on me. "Are you taking me to him?" I ask. "Are you taking me to Maker?" I cover my face with my hands, too scared to fathom this reality. I left California over a year ago, vowing I would never return to that life. Sure, my life now isn't that much better, but at least it was a choice I made. I decided to go to John's.

  Maker was a bad man, is a bad man, and I don't want anything to do with him. I always feared he would come looking for me. He knew I stole money from him. He knew I double crossed him to get away. But I'm a survivor. Aren't I? I had to do what I had to do to get out.

  And I did the best I could.

  Still, I can’t bear the thought of facing him again.

  Beam looks at me, his hand on the steering wheel of the boat. "You're not going to Maker. Hell, I don't know where he is. Up in the mountains somewhere right now."

  "He's in Alaska," I say, my voice tight. "But, why?"

  Beam looks at me, his brows furrowed, his eyes dark. "It's a long story, Bellamy."

  I've never heard him call me that before. It was always Marta. I was always Marta to him, but I have opened up to Beam a few times. He knows where I come from, better than most people, actually. I remember times he’d find me crying in a corner and he'd offer me a handkerchief — it always felt so sentimental. But he never said much. He'd give me a look that said it was best I kept quiet, and I did. I played the part I had to play.

  I wonder if Beam was playing a part too. If we all were. Are.

  "What do you want from me?" I ask him.

  "You won't believe me," he says, "but I just want you to be safe."

  "How do you know I wasn't safe already?"

  "I know, Bellamy, about Father John, about the shit that went down. Wavy told me."

  "You've seen Wavy?” I ask. I'm trying to piece this together. "When did you… how do you know her?"

  "She and Walker, they got married a year back. Jemma's up here now too. She found a mountain man of her own. Maker and I, we moved up here after shit went down in California. Though we parted ways. We all wanted to disappear, I guess."

  "Oh," I say, my voice a whisper. "I thought Jemma was… I thought she…" I shake my head, confused. "The last time I saw Wavy was when she ran to Father John's cult, trying to hide, to get away from the pain she was feeling from losing her sister. But if Jemma's alive… it just doesn't add up."

  “Jemma was running too," Beam fills in the blanks for me. "She never drowned. She's a survivor, just like you."

  I glare at Beam. "You know nothing about me."

  "Probably right about that," he says, "but I do know this, Bellamy Banks. You deserve more than what you've got."

  I want to fight him on this. I want to tell him he's wrong, that he knows nothing about me, and how dare he speak like he does? But the other part of me wants to believe what he's saying. Part of me wants to hold onto that as if it's the truth — that I do deserve more than what I've got.

  "We're almost there," he tells me. "Just an hour to go. You hungry?"

  I shake my head. "I am not hungry. I'm exhausted."

  “Go below deck. There’s a bed with blankets down there," he tells me.

  I nod numbly as I take the steps and go below deck. The bed is in the back and I lie down, pulling a blanket around me. Must be Beam's bed, Beam's boat.

  Beam is living in Alaska. He found me.

  But why? It's too much to consider, and right now what I really need is to sleep. Ever since John told me about my father, I've been running on fumes and finally they gave out. The water lulls me to sleep, and I fall into a slumber I haven't had in years. I don't know if it's Beam or this boat, but I do know this: I'm sick of being tired.

  Chapter Five

  Beam

  When we get to my island, I dock the boat and pace the deck, trying to figure out my next move. I hate that Bellamy is scared out of her mind, but it makes sense. She has no reason to trust me or trust my intentions.

  I know with everything I just told her, she has a hell of a lot to process. I consider letting her sleep below deck for the night, but it's just midnight now and I'm guessing she’s going to wake up terrified out here.

  So I muster my courage to face the girl I've been in love with for so damn long. I go below deck.

  And d
amn, there she is, asleep in my bed. The one I've slept in so many nights when I've been out on this boat the past year, catching fish, throwing out my net. Trying to make an honest living for the first time in my life.

  Her hips curve out and her wild black hair falls over her shoulders. Her eyes are closed and her long dark lashes rest against her cheek. My heart fucking pounds with want. My cock twitches with desire. It's always been Bellamy, always.

  I step closer, thinking I could watch her sleep all night long if that wasn't some creepy ass stalker shit. Still, I indulge for a few minutes longer than necessary, wanting to memorize her. It's been a long time since I saw her face, a lot of nights when I've been wondering where she'd gone, what happened to her, if she was okay. Hell, I know she's not okay, but I vow to change that from here on out. She deserves more than what she's been served, and I'm making it my mission to fix the wrongs she's faced all her life.

  I step closer, wanting to run a hand over the blanket. "Bellamy," I whisper. I want to touch her, rest my hand against her skin, but I know she hasn't offered me any of herself, not even a touch. And I won't put my hands on her when she hasn't asked me to.

  No, not after the hell she's been through with men.

  So I clear my throat and I try again. "Bellamy," I say, my voice sounding gruffer than I intended. "I need you," I try. "We're here. I need you to get up."

  She tosses and turns, whimpering in her sleep. I realize that there's no waking her. She's out cold. So instead, I grab a blanket from the edge of the bed and I sit in the chair across from the bed. Screw the creepy stalker shit. It’s my job to protect her so I’m not going anywhere.

  * * *

  In the morning, I can hear birds calling above deck and I realize I must have dozed off at some point in the night. For a moment, panic takes hold of me, thinking maybe something's happened to Bellamy, but then I get a better bearing of my surroundings and I see her sitting up in bed, stretching her hands over her head. Her T-shirt lifts, her belly exposed, her tits perky. I swear to God, she's not wearing a bra and it does something dangerous to my heart.

  I got to look away.

  "Morning, Beam,” she says, her voice flat. "So you kidnapped me and left me on the boat all night? Are we outlaws on the run? Oh, maybe we're pirates. Is that what we're are?”

  Bellamy’s mood is biting. She's not letting me off the hook and she shouldn't. She is clearly not a morning person. What else am I going to learn about the girl who has my heart?

  I smile, thinking Bellamy is so much more fitting for her than Marta ever was and I'm glad she's gone back to her roots. It makes me wonder, though, where she got that name. Who named her that? I know she doesn't know her parents, where she comes from. She's been an orphan all her life, but damn, I wish I could give her a place to put down roots.

  It's crazy to think I might, but still, I've been called worse things than crazy.

  "We're not living on a boat, Bellamy," I tell her.

  Her lips twist. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

  "It's your name, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, but I didn't think you'd even remember something like that. I was always Marta when I was working for Maker."

  "Well you're not working for Maker anymore, are you?"

  She shakes her head. "No, I don't suppose I am. You're not either?"

  I shake my head. "No. No, I'm not." My stomach growls and her eyes widen.

  "You're hungry?" she asks.

  "I'm always hungry," I say, looking at her a beat too long. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  She grabs her bag and follows me up the stairwell to the deck of the boat. I take in the view of my land and I thank my lucky stars for having the foresight to save my money for years so I could buy this place. This is why I'm never going back to the man I was before — this piece of land right here, my tiny little island in the middle of an ocean, the Gibson property.

  "I don't see a house," Bellamy says, looking around the beach.

  "Yeah, you'll see it soon enough," I tell her. "Follow me, okay?”

  She nods. "The island doesn't look very big," she says.

  "It's not."

  "This is your land? You live here?" she asks.

  I nod. "Yeah. Where have you been living?"

  She sighs as we walk down the stone path that must be a hundred years old. “I’ve been living in the middle of nowhere, Beam."

  "That's what I heard."

  "Yeah?" she says. "What else did you hear?"

  “I heard you joined some sex commune and got yourself in a whole shit ton of trouble." Realizing my voice sounds harsh, I turn to her. "Sorry. It just kills me to think you went from Maker to that."

  Heat rises to her cheeks. She looks away, fighting her emotions. "I did what I had to do. Don't judge me, okay? I'm not judging you."

  "You're not?" I ask her.

  She looks up at me, her chin lowered, but her eyes on mine. "No, Beam. I'm not judging you. I'm confused. I'm a little terrified and slightly annoyed and quite a bit hungry, but I'm not judging anyone."

  "Good," I tell her. "I hope you like my place, it can be your place for as long as you want it to be."

  Her eyes widen in mock surprise. “Oh, you're inviting me to move in. How nice of you. You kidnap me and tell me I can play house."

  I growl, "I didn't kidnap you."

  "What do you call knocking out John and then stealing me away in the dead of the night?"

  "You didn't want to come?"

  "I wanted to get away, but I didn't want to leave on terms that weren't my own."

  "If I would've asked you nicely, would you have come?" I ask her.

  She gives me a steely-eyed glare. "No, I don't suppose I would have. Everything I know about you has to do with Maker and that's a man I don't want to see again."

  "Understood," I tell her, hands raised in defeat.

  "So yeah, I guess if you had asked, I wouldn't have come."

  "You would have stayed with him?"

  Bellamy gives me a wry smile. "Something like that."

  It makes me wish I knew the whole story, every damn thing she's been through since I've seen her last, but she's not offering it.

  "Look,” I tell her. “My place is a little unorthodox."

  She smiles. "I'm used to unorthodox. Remember? I just came from a sex cult."

  I stop walking. “Right. Well I'm just telling you my house is more of a…"

  She looks up. Her mouth falls open. "A tree house," she says. "You live in a tree house?”

  Chapter Six

  Bellamy

  Just last night, I was thinking about how I wish I could be swept away to an island, some oasis with sunflowers and birds chirping, a real-life fantasy, and here I am. It's like I'm in a dream.

  "Beam," I say, stepping closer and looking up into the forest. There is a giant tree with a trunk that's easily six feet wide. It's a massive Alaskan cedar tree and it's been carved into a tree house fit for the Swiss Family Robinson. I’m giddy and I haven't even gotten inside.

  "It's incredible," I say, turning to him. Beam.

  Beam has a tree house.

  I'd laugh if it wasn't all so fucking insane. Beam, who was a bodyguard, basically a hit man for Maker, the drug lord extraordinaire of California. That man lives in a tree.

  There's nothing soft about Beam and his tattoos and intimidating size and muscles. Nothing gentle or easy. There's nothing about him that would make me think he would live in a tree house.

  He tells me to walk upstairs and I do, trying to piece what I know about Beam into what I'm learning about him now.

  Why am I here?

  Maybe I should feel trapped, but for the first time in a long time, I don't. Beam has never made a move on me. He's never so much as touched me and that makes me trust him. Besides, he's strong, strong enough to knock out John, who, even though he's lean, has got muscles, and I've seen him fight. Beam took him down with a few swings.

  "I know it's just a tree house,” Beam says, clearing his throat as we make our way up the hand-hewn steps into the second story wonderland. There are pine floorboards that are polished, stacks of books from floor to ceiling, a kitchenette that looks like it was pulled from a 1950s RV, a turquoise stove and refrigerator, a sink that looks like it's from a farmhouse, big, white, porcelain. Beside it there’s a giant water jug to pump water into it. It's an open-space room with a couch and tables and chairs. It's cozy. The walls are built in and they have wide windows that take my breath away. The view, it's incredible.