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I run a hand through my hair, and a sharp jolt shoots through my side, forcing a rough groan from my throat.

“I’m fine,” I tell them, urging the words out steadily. “He hit my ribs, but it’s not unbearable. Definitely not broken.”

“Fucking hell,” Nick mutters, frustration edging his tone. “I want to know who the bastard is.”

“Over there,” Colt says, pointing to the left.

We all turn at once and spot a man swimming away from us, fast.

“Hey! Stop!” Liam shouts, but the guy only moves faster.

Colt, Nick, Liam, and Chase dive after him, while the rest of us start heading toward the beach. I can’t swim much—each movement along my right side sends another pulse of pain through my ribs—but the water’s shallow enough for me to walk.

We’ve barely covered a few meters when the girls rush into the water toward us.

“Oh my God, are you okay, Ethan?” Sierra exclaims, cupping my face with both hands and turning it side to side as she checks me over.

I laugh softly as I place my hands over hers, gently guiding them away.

“I’m good, Ser,” I reassure her. “He just slammed his board into my ribs and knocked me under, that’s all.”

But instead of calming down, her eyes widen, panic flickering behind them.

“Your ribs? What if they’re broken?”

I don’t get the chance to answer before Thalia steps closer, her movement keen, instinctive. Her hand comes to my chest, pressing lightly along my side, her brows drawing together as she focuses.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” she asks, her voice tight despite the control she’s trying to hold onto. “Or when you breathe? Show me exactly where it hit you.”

Her touch lingers, more careful now, tracing along my ribs as if she’s trying to map the damage, but there’s nothing clinical about it—her breathing is uneven, her focus too intense, the tension in her shoulders giving her away.

“Hey, hey,” I say, lowering my tone, trying to anchor her, to pull her back before she spirals any farther. “I’m fine. Really.”

For an instant, she doesn’t react, her fingers still resting against me, her attention locked on the spot where I was hit, as if refusing to believe me.

Then she blinks, realizing she’s touching me, and everyone’s watching us.

Her hand drops abruptly, and she takes a small step back, fingers curling into fists at her sides as she forces herself under control.

“Let’s get to the beach,” Ryan says. “Looks like the guys caught whoever hit you.”

Sure enough, on the sand, the others and a few of our security agents are holding a man who’s shouting angrily.

“You have no right to take my camera,” he yells as we approach.

“Fucking paparazzi,” Kai snaps. “What the hell are you doing on private property?”

Colt stands a few feet away, a dripping camera in his hand.

Somehow, the man managed to sneak into the resort and swim all the way out to us—going through all that effort for a few photos he could sell to the press or post himself.

“You know what you just did is punishable by law, right?” one of our bodyguards says, stepping forward.

“The camera and the phone stay with us,” Colt tells the man, his jaw tightening. “Next time you even think about getting within two hundred meters of us, I guarantee you won’t get away…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence—he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says enough. It’s the kind that freezes people in place, the one that built his reputation.

In just a few seconds, the Colt we all know is gone. Standing in front of us now is Colt Jones—the man the underworld whispers about, the most dangerous of them all.