“What’s personal is you tracking me down in the middle of the ocean over something that shouldn’t exist.”
His eyes narrow. I feel the weight of Bishop’s doing the same in my periphery.
“Do you have feelings for her?” Langston questions slowly. “Because feelings tend to complicate business.”
“Your concern is noted and unwarranted. Now leave.”
“Like we said, we’re interested in speaking to Ms. Cross. Once you facilitate that conversation?—”
“I’m not facilitating a fucking conversation,” I sneer.
“No?” Bishop’s smirk widens as he turns his attention to the glass salon doors. “I think your staff would disagree.”
I follow his gaze to where Isla stands at the opening doors, flanked by two deck crew, their hands on her arms, her expression stark with panic.
I shove to my feet, the chair screeching against the teak.
“Sit,” Bishop warns.
“She’s fine.” Langston places his coffee down with deliberate care. “This is nothing more than a conversation.”
Like hell.
It’s a threat. A bribe. Pure intimidation.
Isla isn’t even properly dressed. She stands frozen in my oversized shirt as if she’s been unceremoniously hauled from my cabin.
“If you think I’m an easy target because I didn’t grow up under the dictatorship of a felon, you’re fucking mistaken.” I pin Langston with apocalyptic hatred. “You don’t want to go to war with me.”
He remains composed. Apathetic. “Again, cousin, all we require is a conversation. You’re escalating a situation?—”
I stalk toward Isla, fighting the need to run my hands over her to check for injuries. “Are you okay?”
She nods, a jerky, fearful movement.
It does nothing to appease the thunderous rage pounding at my temples as the traitorous crew members release her.
I lock my hand around the first man’s throat, cutting off his air before my right drives a fist into his gut. He folds with a stifled choke while the second man’s eyes widen. I pivot, using the momentum to slam my elbow into his face, the crack of cartilage sharp and final.
Isla retreats with a gasp that has me following her, instinct overriding all else. I grab her wrist, hold her gaze, and convey my claim with a feral look.
She’s mine to shield. Mine to defend. At least until she leaves this yacht.
“Raffael…” Her voice is frayed.
“We’ll talk later.” I stroke my thumb along her arm—the barest form of soothing I’ll allow in front of the company who would use it against us—and switch my venom to the bosun. “Were you involved?”
“No, sir.” He shakes his head.
“It’s true,” Isla says in a rush. “He tried to stop them.”
My temples pulse as I recalibrate my thought process from murder to damage control. “Then escort them to the storeroom.Use the restraints from the security locker and post a guard. I’ll deal with them later.”
The bosun quickly herds the two injured men away, while Isla shuffles closer, her palm finding my chest, her touch a brand.
“Raffael,” she whispers, voice trembling. “What’s happening?”
I don’t get a chance to answer.