Chapter 2 THE Voss Brothers

Sarah hadn’t wanted to come.

The invitation had sat on the kitchen counter for two weeks like an accusation—thick cream cardstock, gold foil lettering, the words “Private Yacht Soirée” embossed in elegant script. She’d almost thrown it away. Almost.

But tonight Lucas was home.

Not alone.

She’d walked in from the market to find his car in the driveway and laughter spilling from the living room—his low chuckle mixed with a woman’s brighter, breathier one. The mistress. The one he didn’t bother hiding anymore. They were on the couch, her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting high on her thigh like it belonged there. Sarah had frozen in the doorway, grocery bags still in her hands, the cold from the milk carton seeping through the paper.

Lucas had looked up, not even guilty.

“You’re home early,” he’d said, like she was interrupting.

The woman—blonde, younger, wearing one of Sarah’s silk robes—had given a little wave. “Hi, sweetie.”

Sarah had set the bags down without a word, turned, and walked upstairs.

She’d stood in the closet for ten minutes, staring at the black dress she’d bought last year on a day she felt brave. Sleeveless. Plunging neckline. Thigh slit that whispered scandal with every step. She’d never worn it. Lucas had called it “desperate” when he saw the receipt.

Tonight she pulled it off the hanger.

She didn’t text him where she was going. Didn’t leave a note.

She just left.

The marina was twenty minutes away. The yacht—named Eclipse—glowed against the dark water like a floating jewel box: white hull lit soft gold, music drifting across the pier (slow, sensual deep house), uniformed crew checking names at the gangplank.

She handed over the invitation. They smiled, welcomed her aboard.

The main deck was intimate, not overcrowded—maybe fifty people total, all polished and perfumed, champagne flutes catching starlight. She accepted a glass, took one sip to steady her hands, and tried to blend into the shadows near the railing.

She felt the shift before she saw them.

A hush. Heads turning. The kind of ripple that follows predators moving through tall grass.

Then she looked up.

The Voss brothers.

They were on the upper deck, leaning against the glass railing like they owned the horizon. Lucien in black velvet dinner jacket, no tie, shirt open at the throat. Vincent in charcoal, sleeves rolled, lazy grin already forming. Zane in midnight blue, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on her.

Three heads turned at once.

Her stomach flipped so hard she nearly dropped her glass.

Lucien’s ice-blue gaze locked first—recognition, then heat. Vincent straightened, smile spreading slow and sinful. Zane’s dark eyes dragged over her from heels to hair, unhurried, thorough.

She could leave. Slip below deck. Call an Uber and go anywhere but here.

Instead she lifted her chin, smoothed the dress over her hips, and started up the curved staircase.

Every step parted the slit higher. Every sway drew eyes. But only three mattered.

By the time she reached the upper deck they’d shifted—forming a loose triangle that cut her off from the rest of the party like a private island.

Lucien spoke first, voice low velvet over steel.

“Sarah.”

Her name in his mouth felt like foreplay.

Vincent tilted his head, eyes dropping shamelessly to her cleavage then back up. “Didn’t think we’d see you here tonight.”

Zane said nothing at first. Just stared—long enough that heat crawled up her neck.

“Lucas know you’re out?” Zane finally asked, tone flat but edged.

She met his gaze. “Lucas is busy.”

A beat.

Vincent’s grin turned wicked. “His loss.”

Lucien stepped closer—close enough she caught his scent: dark cedar, expensive leather, faint smoke. “You look like you came dressed to start trouble.”

She held his stare. “Maybe I did.”

Zane pushed off the railing, closing in on her right. “Careful, princess. Trouble with us doesn’t end at dawn.”

The old nickname hit different now—no brotherly tease, just raw hunger.

Vincent reached out, brushed his knuckles lightly down her bare arm. “We’ve been watching you for years. Waiting for you to stop pretending.”

Her breath hitched.

Lucien’s hand settled at her waist—firm, possessive, thumb stroking once over silk. “You’re not his good little wife tonight, are you?”

She shook her head once. “No.”

Vincent’s fingers found the edge of the slit, tracing upward without crossing the line. “Then tell us why you really came.”

She looked between them—three men who’d been forbidden fruit since she was old enough to understand want. Men who’d kept their distance. Men who weren’t keeping it anymore.

“I came because I’m tired of being invisible,” she whispered. “Because I want to feel something. Because I want… you.”

The air between them ignited.

Lucien’s thumb pressed harder against her hip. “All three?”

She nodded.

Zane leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “Say it.”

“I want all three of you,” she said, voice trembling but sure. “To fuck me.”

Vincent’s low laugh was pure sin. “Good girl.”

Lucien’s grip tightened just enough to make her gasp. “You sure?”

She tilted her head up, meeting his molten blue eyes. “I’ve never been more sure.”

They exchanged one look—silent, decisive.

Vincent nodded toward the interior stairs. “There’s a private suite below deck. Locked. Soundproof. Ours for the night.”

Zane’s hand settled at the small of her back—guiding, promising. “Unless you want to stay up here and let everyone watch.”

She swallowed. “I don’t.”

Lucien took her hand, fingers threading through hers. “Then come.”

They led her down the narrow staircase, away from the music and laughter, through a quiet corridor lined with closed doors.

One door opened at Lucien’s keycard.

Soft lighting. Plush sectional. Low table with untouched champagne. The faint thrum of engines vibrating through the floor like a heartbeat.

The door closed.

Locked.

The yacht rocked gently beneath them.

Sarah stood in the center of the room, pulse roaring, skin electric.

Lucien stepped in front.

Vincent left.

Zane right.

Surrounded.

Lucien cupped her jaw, tilting her face up. “Last chance to walk away.”

She leaned into his touch. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Vincent’s fingers slipped under the slit, grazing bare thigh. “Then let’s see how loud we can make you scream.”

Zane’s hand brushed her hair aside, lips ghosting her neck. “We’ve waited too long for this, Sarah.”

Lucien kissed her first—slow, deep, claiming.

Vincent took her next—rougher, hungrier.

Zane last—slower, reverent, devastating.

When they pulled back she was dizzy, lips swollen, body buzzing.

Lucien tugged her toward the bedroom door at the far end.

Vincent and Zane flanked her.

She walked between them—wanted, alive.

For the first time in years she didn’t feel like someone’s afterthought.

She felt like the only thing that mattered.

And she was about to let the Voss brothers prove it until the sun rose over the water.