The sun was blistering, but the breeze off the shore carried just enough salt to make the heat tolerable. Nicholas could've booked a private beach—could've taken his yacht out to sea—but where was the fun in that? Let the tourists gawk. Let the pretty women pretend not to stare.

Andreas dropped two ice-cold beers onto the table beside him, the bottles sweating in the heat. "You're the only bastard I know who relaxes in enemy territory," he grunted, sinking into the adjacent chair.

Nicholas flicked off the cap with his thumb and took a long pull, his smirk lazy. "Enemy territory? Too bad. It's all mine now—they just don't know it yet." He tilted the bottle toward Andreas in a mock toast. "Can't a man enjoy the fruits of his labor? You wound me."

Andreas said nothing. Typical. The man had done half the work carving up Mykonos for the Andinos, yet he'd still rather brood than bask.

Then Andreas' gaze locked onto something in the distance—too long, too focused. Nicholas followed his sightline to a cluster of women near the shore.

Ah.

"Isn't that the little thief who emptied your wallet at the casino last night?" Nicholas drawled, relishing the way Andreas' jaw tightened. The girl in question was grinning, her laugh carrying on the wind like a challenge. "Or should I call her your future wife?"

"I let her," Andreas muttered, standing abruptly. "Forget it."

Nicholas barely heard him. Because there she was, next to Andreas' woman, shier, hiding in shadows that shouldn't exist in the Mykonos sun.

Salt-kissed hair, an oversized shirt hiding curves he was already imagining. He knew exactly what she had on under that fabric. A two-piece. Maybe red. Maybe sea-green. Definitely sinful.

His grip tightened around the beer bottle. That shirt needed to go.

He rose with the lazy grace of a shark cutting through water. "While you brood, I'm going to clear up the view." A smirk. "Consider it a public service."

Andreas didn't object, following close behind. Smart man. Of course, he had his own business to attend to.

The sand burned underfoot as Nicholas strode forward, his linen shirt flaring open just enough to reveal the scars along his body, some glaringly fresh. The crowd parted instinctively; whispers died in his wake. Even the sea breeze stilled, as if holding its breath.

And there she was.

Mid-laugh, volleyball tucked under one arm, that fucking oversized shirt drowning her curves. Sunlight caught the gold in her hair, the defiance in her stance—untouched.

Their eyes locked. A mistake.

Nicholas saw the exact moment she realised it—the flicker of awareness, the instinctive step back. Too late. He was already there, close enough to catch the scent of her sunscreen and something sweeter beneath. Vanilla. Trouble.

"I haven't seen you around," he mused, plucking the volleyball from her grip with effortless ease. His thumb brushed her wrist—deliberate. "but who am I to talk? I'm new here."

Her friend stepped forward, but Andreas materialised like a shadow, gripping her elbow. "Let's get a drink, thief," he growled, steering her away as she protested. Leaving Nicholas alone with his prey.

He spun the ball on one finger, a slow, taunting circle. "That shirt's a crime against humanity, agápi. Let's fix that."

"Nicholas Andino." He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Now we're acquainted."

The sea held its breath.

"Tell me your name, koulka," he murmured, "or I'll call you mine."