Chapter 1
The floor of the corridor was cold on the soles of Vince’s feet, but he ignored it.
No, didn’t ignore. Let the chill roll up his body and then fought the shiver that wanted to ripple back down his arms and legs.
It was just cold. Nothing to shudder off. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Breathing deep, he kept walking.
The base was nearly silent this time of morning, the only sound the shush of the heating system’s fans. Then, as he neared the security cubicle, the squeak of the guard’s chair.
That would be Sam this morning. Single, wanted to study economics, spent most of his time at the desk reading nonfiction about market dynamics.
When he came into view, Vince nodded to him. “Good morning, Sam.”
Sam’s head jerked up, as if he hadn’t heard Vince approaching. Or noted him on the monitor. “Morning, Vince. Sorry, I didn’t see you—”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “Good book?”
“Yeah.” Sam flashed the cover at him. “You headed out for a swim?”
“I am.”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it. Fuckin’ freezing out there.”
Vince shrugged. “Made for it, I guess. See you in a bit. Gonna quiz you when I get out.”
Sam’s sputters joined the hum of the heating system as Vince made his way toward the access door. When he reached it, he pressed his thumb to the ID pad, and then stepped through the portal, leaving weak thoughts behind.
He had them, of course. Everybody did. He just ignored his. Made a lot of things easier. Like stripping his robe at the edge of the lock pool in the subzero temps they enjoyed on this island off the coast of Norway, and then diving into the saltwater, naked. Couldn’t shift until he was in the water, after all. It slipped around him like a glove.
An icy one.
Sonuva—
He shifted and made a quick circle in the pool.
Grateful for the water. Grateful for this body. Grateful for strength and confidence and ambition. Grateful for mornings.
He nosed the push button at the far side of the lock pool. As soon as the gates opened wide enough, he shot through.
The water of the Norwegian Sea was even colder than the lock pool, but he rode the sensation like the lesson it was. Couldn’t hurt him in his dolphin form, any more than the corridor floor could hurt his human feet. He was strong and confident and ambitious. He was out here alone, but that was the price. When they were on the research boat, he led a team swim every morning. Between missions, though, he didn’t have the pull, and not everybody was interested in bettering themselves. Some people preferred to sleep later, rise later, start later, end later. Most people, even.
Not my place to judge. Swim.
He did, hard, knifing through the predawn chop, counting the kicks of his flukes. A thousand north before he would turn west. As he carved his sine wave through the ocean, he opened his senses to his early morning compatriots. No one from base was willing to come out, but he had plenty of company. A couple of fishing vessels a ways off, where they always were. From deeper came the pings and creaks of a submarine, and from somewhere in between the call of a lone minke whale. He sent out his own call—morning—to any dolphins in the area, and then realized he’d lost count of his kicks.
He subtracted a hundred from the last count he could remember and swam on.
At one thousand, he turned westward, and after another thousand strokes turned to the south. Fighting a current that wanted to drive him toward Norway, he did his thousand and then cut sharply east toward base. At one thousand, he slowed, listening for the underwater signature of the compound. Sure enough, he’d swum farther north than he’d needed to, but if the price of losing focus was to make himself stronger, he’d pay it. He turned south and made for the lock gates.
The air in the corridor swooshed around him, warm and welcoming, which was more than he could say for his coworkers here. Still in bed, every one of them.
Not my place to judge.
When he reached security, he knocked on the tempered glass, startling Sam again. “On a supply/demand model, a change in equilibrium usually correlates with a change in…”
Sam stared at him, wide-eyed. “Um, price?”
“With confidence.”
“Price.”
Vince nodded. “Correct.”
“Did you—”
But he was headed to the showers.
He washed efficiently, then allowed himself thirty seconds to enjoy the drum of the hot water on his shoulders. He counted those seconds carefully, breathing the tension from his body, and then turned off the water and returned to his room.
He’d dried off and dressed, and was at fourteen swishes of mouthwash out of twenty when his intercom rang. Security, the screen said. He finished quickly and spit, then pushed the button to answer.
“Ito here.”
“Mr. Cross just messaged. He wants to vidcon with you in fifteen.”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Uh, and Vince? Would you knock on Lach’s door on your way? He’s not answering his ’com.”
Of course he fucking wasn’t.
Not your place to ju—
But it was his place. He led a team here, and Lachlan McAlistair was on it. Usually, anyway. Just because Lach was a freelancer and they’d happened to sleep together for half a year, once upon a time, didn’t give him the right to—
“Vince?”
“Yup, I’m on it. Thanks, Sam.”
“Sure. Hey, how did—”
He ended the call and closed his eyes. Rolled his shoulders to throw off the tension that wanted to camp out there again. Then he grabbed his tablet, turned off his lights, and left his room.
~ ~ ~
Lach woke to a tingle in his fingers.
Had he left the toy on? Blearily, he pulled the vibrating object from under his pillow. Ach, no. Not the toy, which he now remembered cleaning and stashing properly: under his bunk mattress, with the rest of his solo-fun paraphernalia. This was his mobile, his very-against-regulations mobile he used some nights (most nights) for inspirational imagery.
Except the image on his lock screen just now didn’t inspire much beyond dread.
He answered the call. “Hullo, Da.”
“Lachlan. Were you asleep?”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and squinted at the time.
5:49.
Of fucking course he’d been asleep. Christ.
“Early bird gets the sterling, son.”
Hawk jokes. Excellent. “Don’t you mean the worm?”
“What the fuck do I want with worms? I’m in whisky, not tequila.”
Bleedin’ eels. Family business jokes too. “I start work soon. What’s up?”
“We finally got permission from Council. We’re demolishing the old facility.”
Lach sat up, his attention suddenly alert. “Demo?”
“Aye, well, it’s just sitting there, rotting—”
“It’s not rotting. It just needs some care.”
“It’s a drain.”
“On what? You just said it’s sitting there, doing nothing.” And it was a beauty, the old distillery. Brick and stone, with a slate roof, and solid enough to withstand another two centuries of Orkney winters and arsehole McAlistairs.
“You planning to come back and join us, then?”
“I have my own business.”
“Right. Snapping pictures.”
Lach ground his teeth. He could do without the dripping derision this morning. Any morning, come to it. “It’s a lot more than just pictures, Da.”
“Aye, like what?”
Well, fuck. Wasn’t like he could actually tell him. “Videography too. I get a lot of corporate gigs.”
“Anything I’ve seen?”
“Mostly private gigs, though. Nothing I can share. Why the push on the old dame?”
“Because the old dame expired decades ago, and her corpse is taking up valuable space.”
“But—”
“Here’s the deal, Lachlan. I’m ringing you out of respect.”
What a fucking laugh.
“I know you fancy the old girl, but she’s got to go. I have plans—”
“What plans?”
“—but I thought I’d give you a chance to visit her one last time. Snap a few shots for sentimental value, or some such.”
His father would never understand the depth of the sentiment he held for the old works because it was only partially about the physical structures. The real roots were attached hard and fast to memories of his granddad, who had also loved the place. The thought of its bricks collapsing under a wrecking ball made his heart want to do the same.
The original distillery had been the main point of contention when they’d argued over Lach’s future in the business. He’d insisted the only way he’d agree to work under his father was on condition the works would be refurbished. But Hamish McAlistair had dismissed the idea out of hand. Good money after bad, he’d said. Which had been a fairly succinct summary of his interest in his son as well.
“I have to work,” Lach said.
“Must not be that important to you, then.”
“You can’t have a buyer for the mash tanks yet.” They were gorgeous, those tanks, double-clad with copper sheeting. They’d made very good hiding places when he was a lad.
“As it happens, I might.”
“What?”
A knock sounded at the door, and Lach jumped. Shit, how loudly had he been talking?
He turned away from his door and lowered his voice to a murmur. “Listen, Da, I have to go—”
“What? Can’t hear you.”
“Can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you as soon—”
Another rap at the door, louder this time, and then, “Lach?”
Vince.
“The demo team’s booked,” his father said. “If you want a final fare-thee-well, I suggest you make arrangements.”
Jesus, sounded like a funeral.
Three sharply efficient raps on the door. “Come on, McAlistair, rise and shine.”
“I gotta go,” he hissed into the phone. “Don’t do anything yet. I’ll check—”
The door creaked open behind him. “Hey, why aren’t you answering the ’com?”
Lach swung around at the intrusion.
Vincent fucking Ito, looking as spry and smug and goddamned perfect as he always did at the arsecrack of dawn.
Vince’s gaze dropped to Lach’s hand, and he scowled. “Seriously?”
“I’ll text you, Da.” Lach ended the call, then stood there like an idiot because there was no good place to store a phone in front of your team lead when you weren’t supposed to have one in the first place.
“Secure facility,” Vince said.
“I know.”
Vince drew a deep breath in a move Lach knew well—he was usually the reason Vince had to calm his shit. “Family situation?”
“My gran.” Christ, where had that come from? Forget that, fly with it. “She’s been ill, the poor old dear. I had to keep a line open to the family. For updates.”
Vince nodded. “Updates.”
“Aye. Updates.”
Vince stared at him for a long moment. “You don’t have a living grandmother.”
What? How did he know that? Had they actually discussed it? “My great auntie, I mean.”
“Stop.”
“My da’s mother’s second cousin, or something…”
“Lachlan.”
A shiver flashed over his skin, and he drew his own desperate breath. Why did his full name sound so different in this man’s voice? Why did it make him want to drop to his knees and surrender his last pathetic ounce of pride?
He gripped his phone until the plastic squeaked in his fingers.
Vince’s scowl moved upward. “What’d you do to your hair?”
“Had it trimmed.” Had it hacked off, more like. It’d been down to his arse. And what was it to this one, anyway? There weren’t any fucking hair regulations.
“Sam’s been trying to reach you on the intercom.”
The ’com? He glanced at it, but the light that indicated a missed connection was dark. “No sign of that.”
Vince stepped into the small cabin to peer at the speaker on the wall, and his scent curled into Lach’s senses, crisp and powerful, tweaking his salivary glands. The smooth contour of muscle on the side of Vince’s neck, the hard curve of his shoulder. That hand, half curled into a fist. His right hand.
His dominant hand.
Jesus wept.
Lach tossed the phone on his pillow. “What’s up with Sam?”
Vince turned back to him. “Cross wants a teleconference call with us.”
“Us? You and me? Why?”
“I don’t know, but we have”—Vince looked at his watch—“nine minutes.”
Right. Get your shit together, McAlistair. “Go on. I’ll meet you there.”
Vince backed toward the door, his gaze dropping dubiously over Lach’s pajama trousers. “Eight minutes now.”
“Got it. Bye.”
“Don’t be late.”
Lach chuckled. “Ye’re the one loiterin’ at my cabin door, feastin’ yer eyes.”
Shameless he was, stretching his accent like treacle, and sure enough, Vince’s dark gaze flashed up to meet his. If they’d still been together, he’d have been in for a very sore arse later. And he’d have loved every fucking second of it.
But they weren’t together, and they never would be again. Not if he had any say in the matter.
He shut the door in Vince’s face and reached for a clean shirt.
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