Chapter 4
4
CRUZ
M ornings aboard Serenity are usually quiet—mine alone, just the soft lap of waves and the groan of wood shifting gently with the tide. Even the crew sleeps on the other boat unless Denny’s had one too many and crashes here. But today, there’s a change in the air. A presence. Not just anyone—her. Crystal. I don’t have to open my eyes to know she’s already up. It’s like the boat feels different, more awake, more alive. Less mine—and somehow, I don’t hate it.
The night was rough—what started as a squall turned into a full-blown storm that rocked Serenity like a toy boat in a bathtub. But Crystal? She handled it like she'd been born to it. Calm, steady, curled up in a corner with her journal and cocoa like the thunder was background music. I half expected her to freak out, maybe even ask for a life vest. Instead, she rode it out with that same cool determination she applies to everything else. Unshaken. Like she belongs out here more than she knows.
The first thing I notice is the hoodie. My hoodie. It's oversized, worn soft from salt and time, and draped over Crystal like it belongs there. Like she does. The sleeves are too long, half covering her hands, and the neckline hangs loose, exposing one smooth shoulder to the early light. It's somehow both innocent and intimate—and yeah, it hits me harder than it should before I've even had coffee.
The garment drapes over Crystal as if tailored for her—its hem brushing bare thighs, its hood pushed halfway back to reveal a chaotic mess of blonde bedhead. She’s barefoot, perched near the bow with her knees drawn up and a leather-bound journal open across them, the spine worn like it’s been everywhere with her. There’s a pencil tucked behind one ear, and every now and then, she mumbles to herself while flipping pages, completely immersed. Her lips move silently as she reads, brow furrowed in a way that says she’s deep into something academic and thrilling—some mystery only she can see. It’s not just attractive—it’s magnetic. Watching her work is like watching a tempest gather force in total silence.
I stretch, slow and easy, easing into the moment like I didn’t just spend the last minute silently watching her like she’s a sunrise I’m not supposed to notice. It’s ridiculous—how she makes reading look like an art form, how she somehow manages to turn my old hoodie into something I can’t stop staring at. I shake it off, but yeah, it’s a losing game.
“Morning, Doc,” I murmur, my voice still rough from sleep, low and gravel-edged. “Can’t decide if you’ve upgraded your look or just fully committed to stealing my stuff.”
She glances up from the edge of her journal, one eyebrow raised with surgical precision. “Sleeping arrangements? Surprisingly luxurious. Wardrobe options? Not so much. So, I borrowed. Improvised, technically. You can have it back when I’m done making it look better.”
I grin, letting my gaze linger a beat too long. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me. Might be the first time that hoodie’s been treated with any respect.”
She snorts and goes back to her book, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying a smile she’s not quite ready to admit to. She hides it behind the edge of the page, but I catch it—and that flicker of amusement feels like a win. A real one. One I didn’t have to charm or out-stubborn. Just earned.
After a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs for breakfast, we suit up and get into the Zodiac, heading closer to the dive site. I drop the mushroom anchors—one on either side—to hold the boat in place. As we roll back into the ocean, the sea remains churned up. The water is murky with low visibility and shifting currents, but the deeper we go, the calmer it gets.
Down here, where it’s quiet and cold and sharp with purpose, she moves like she belongs. Her confidence and comfort have increased since the boat trip out here yesterday. She’s less hesitant and she appears to be moving more on instinct than anything else. Trusting herself and trusting me to keep her safe.
I watch her trace carvings we find on the rock, her fingers steady and smooth even with gloves on. She pauses every so often to pull out a plastic sleeve with notations and matches the symbols on the rock to the ones on her notes. Brow furrowed, eyes locked in, she looks like she’s decoding a secret left by the sea itself. We don’t speak—we can’t—but even if we could, I wouldn’t want to interrupt her rhythm. She’s in the zone, and I’m just lucky enough to be swimming beside her.
It’s not seamless. I point left, she veers right. She forgets to signal, I overcompensate and nearly run into her fins. It’s awkward, sometimes even a little chaotic, but we find our rhythm—like two dancers learning the steps by feel. Eventually, we sync up just enough to function. Then she signals me with a sharp tap and gestures toward something half-hidden in the rock. Another marker—weathered but deliberate, partially embedded in the wall and covered in algae. I shine my dive light over it, the beam catching the curve of the carving. I give her a thumbs up, and this time, she flashes one back. That alone feels like progress.
Thick, silty water curls around us like smoke, stirred up from yesterday’s weather. My dive light barely cuts through it—just enough to see a few feet ahead. Crystal’s behind me, methodical and careful, a notebook strapped to her wrist like we’re cataloging shipwrecks in a lab instead of diving blind into a sunken pocket of the Gulf.
We’re deeper than I thought we'd be. I don’t like it. The water's colder here, the pressure more pronounced—like the ocean's holding its breath. Something about the current’s off, too. It shifts against my side like a warning I can’t explain. I slow down, scanning the dark, trying to make sense of the shapes that float in and out of reach. The wreck we’re here to investigate is supposed to be just ahead—fragments of hull, maybe cargo, if we’re lucky. But right now, it feels like we’re swimming into something else entirely. Not just deeper water. Deeper risk.
My dive light slices through the gloom, catching flecks of sediment drifting like slow-falling snow. Crystal swims just ahead, smooth and steady, her form silhouetted against the muted glow. She glances back, signaling with a two-finger point, then a slow sweep of her hand across the ocean floor.
I follow the motion and freeze. There—half-buried under silt and time—curves the unmistakable shape of wrought iron. A hinge. No; part of a cannon carriage. And beyond it, fragments of darkened timber, waterlogged and bloated, ribs of a ship that shouldn't still be here.
La Reina.
It’s not just wreckage. It’s a graveyard. Debris is scattered like forgotten bones across the seafloor—barrel hoops, rusted fastenings, shattered pottery, coral-encrusted planks. And nestled in the mess, barely visible unless you're looking for it, is a carved fragment of wood still bearing faded Spanish insignia. A crown and cross. Royal seal.
My chest tightens.
Crystal floats still now, almost reverent, her hand slowly reaching out but not touching—respect, not hesitation. She knows exactly what this is. We’ve found her.
Then I feel it—a sudden, subtle compression in the water, like the ocean just inhaled. It's instinct more than sight that tips me off. Something's coming. Fast. Sleek. Heavy. Not the usual school of jacks or curious barracuda. This is bigger, the kind of movement that changes the entire current around you for a beat. My gut clenches before my brain catches up.
I turn. Crystal’s frozen mid-note, her eyes wide behind the mask. She sees it too.
Shit. A bull shark slices through the gloom like a torpedo—solid, fast, all muscle and bad attitude. Ten feet easy, maybe more. Thick body, wide head, dead black eyes that don’t flinch. It moves like it owns the water, like it’s been waiting for something to cross its path. Us. It vanishes into the silt, then reappears out of the fog like a nightmare on a loop—closer this time. Tracking.
I put myself between it and Crystal without thinking, body on autopilot, instincts drilled deep. One arm out, broad and firm, making me a bigger presence. Knife in my hand—not to stab, just flash. A warning, a deterrent. I hold it high and angle the blade to catch every bit of light I can, sending a shimmer through the haze. Then I tap my tank—once, twice, three times—sharp, metallic clinks that echo out like sonar pulses. The sound vibrates through the water, daring the shark to think twice.
The shark flinches. Good, but not enough. It peels away just far enough to regroup, then slides back into a wider loop—circling us like it’s weighing the odds, figuring out if we’re prey or just too much work. Its movements are slower now, but deliberate. Calculated. Testing our reaction. Testing me.
I stay still, calm, projecting bigger energy than I feel. My muscles are tight, coiled, but I don't show it. Crystal’s behind me. I can sense her presence like a second pulse—quick, shallow breaths, her heartbeat thumping fast through the water. She hasn’t bolted. Hasn’t panicked. She’s quiet, holding steady, probably scared out of her mind but staying right where she needs to be. Brave as hell. She’s probably not used to this kind of dive—the kind where something ancient and wild decides to test you—but she’s hanging in. I’m impressed. More than I should be.
The shark arcs closer. Too damn close. Its thick, scarred body brushes the edge of my light, and for a split second, I see its eye—flat, dark, and locked on me like it’s weighing whether I’m bluffing. The pressure in the water changes again, subtle but unmistakable, as it shifts its path just slightly, slicing a few feet lower like it’s looking for a weakness in our formation. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, but I keep still, tracking every twitch of its tail.
I thrust the knife downward in a sudden, aggressive move—deliberate and sharp, the kind of motion predators recognize. The flash of the blade slices through the gloom like lightning, a silent warning that I’m not backing down. The shark jerks left, its powerful body rippling as it shifts course, either annoyed or deciding we’re not worth the trouble. With a final flick of its tail, it vanishes back into the haze like it was never there—just a ghost with teeth fading into the deep.
Gone. But I don't move. Not yet. I hold still in the water, counting every second like it matters—ten, twenty, twenty-five—eyes sweeping the shadows, waiting for the shape to come back, for that ripple of pressure to return. Nothing stirs. No flash of movement. No cold churn. Just silence. Heavy and wide. My grip loosens on the knife. Slowly. Carefully. But the tension in my chest doesn’t fade.
I turn to her. She’s still frozen, shoulders tense, eyes wide behind her mask, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. I reach out, touch her hand—just a squeeze, solid and steady. Not romantic. Reassurance. She nods. Barely. But I catch the edge of it—the flicker in her eyes that says she knows how close that just was.
We stay closer after that. No gaps. Shoulder to shoulder. Her presence is a constant beside me now, every kick of her fins aligned with mine. She matches my pace without hesitation, like some part of her knows instinctively that staying close isn't just about safety—it's about trust. I lead again, but my focus has shifted. I'm not just looking for wreckage anymore. I'm watching the shadows, the current, the flickers at the edge of my light. I'm scanning for anything that wants to come between her and the surface. Anything that thinks it can.
Nothing does, even so, part of me wishes I could reach for her hand and not let go. Not just because of the shark, or the cold, or the dark closing in around us—but because in that moment, her presence beside me feels like the only thing keeping this dive from swallowing us whole. It's irrational. I know that. But I still want it. That connection. That anchor.
Later, as we haul ourselves back into the Zodiac, she’s the first to unclip her gear and rip off her mask. Water streams from her hair as she shakes it out—part golden retriever, part unbothered sea goddess, like she didn’t just stare down a bull shark like it was a math quiz she intended to ace. She exhales hard—half exhaustion, half adrenaline still humming through her veins—then turns to me, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with the high of survival.
I toss her a towel, and for once, neither of us says anything. We’re quiet the whole ride back to Serenity. The engine hums beneath us, the sea slaps against the hull, and every few seconds, I catch her looking back toward the water like she’s half-expecting the shark to leap out and demand a rematch.
Once we’ve tied off the Zodiac and climbed aboard, we just stand there for a second—dripping, wired, breathing in sync like we surfaced from something way deeper than water. Maybe we did.
“Not bad for land legs,” I say, finally, my grin easy even though my chest is still tight from how close that shark got. And from how close she came to it.
Crystal glances sideways at me, lips curving. “Not bad for a TV diver,” she tosses back, and there's a dare in her tone—but it’s missing the usual spike. Her voice is lighter now, touched with something new. Not relief, not sarcasm. Something softer. Like trust, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.
I nod toward her and keep my tone casual, but every word is loaded. “You didn’t flinch.”
Her gaze meets mine—steady, unreadable. “I figured you were moving enough for the both of us.”
“Only because I thought I was about to watch you become a tasty shark snack.”
She laughs—a short, surprised sound that breaks open the moment. “Please. That thing wasn’t interested in me. It was clearly after your spotlight.”
I chuckle, then step a little closer. “Jealousy. It's ugly on a bull shark.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You saying it was scared of you?”
“I’m saying it blinked first.”
She snorts but doesn’t argue. Instead, she looks past me, out at the horizon. The wind tugs her hair across her cheek, and her expression shifts. Less bravado, more wonder. Like she’s realizing, maybe for the first time, just how close that line was—between safe and not. Between the dive we planned and the one we just survived.
“We’re really doing this,” she says quietly. “It’s not just legend anymore.”
“No,” I say, watching her. “It’s real. And it’s dangerous.”
She turns to face me, jaw set in that way she gets when she’s already decided something. “Good.”
And damn, if that doesn’t hit harder than the shark ever could. Like maybe she’s starting to believe we’re actually on the same team. That it’s not just coincidence or forced proximity, but something more real taking shape between us. We sit on the edge of the deck, close enough that our knees brush every so often, sipping bottled water in silence. The air is crisp and charged, full of sun and salt and something else that feels a little like potential. The kind of post-dive high I haven’t felt in a long time—not just adrenaline, but connection.
“Had a dive like this once,” I say after a beat, the words coming slower than usual. “Syria. SEAL op. Night dive. Cold as hell, zero visibility, the kind of current that eats your fins if you don’t keep kicking. We were after a downed recon drone—black box buried somewhere inside the wreckage. My teammate, Remy—solid guy, sharp—he went in first, but something spooked him. He froze inside the tight crawlspace of the fuselage, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I had to drag him out, keep us both from getting pinned. We made it, but after that... things felt different. That mission stuck with me. Not the danger—SEALs eat that for breakfast—but the silence. The fear in his eyes. It made me question whether adrenaline was enough to keep chasing ghosts at the bottom of the ocean.”
Crystal looks at me then—really looks. Not like she’s trying to read between the lines or dissect what I just said, but like she’s seeing something I didn’t mean to let slip. Something real. Her eyes soften just enough to register it, like maybe she knows what it costs to say those words out loud. Like maybe she understands more than I thought.
“Is that why you left?” she asks. The question seems genuinely curious with no kind of judgment involved.
I nod, slowly, watching the horizon like it might answer for me. “Part of it. I didn’t want to become the guy who blindly checked boxes until one day he realized he couldn’t live with where the path had led him. So I stepped off it—while I still could.”
She says nothing—just sits with the breeze lifting strands of her hair, her gaze fixed somewhere past the horizon but her focus clearly still on me. There's a stillness to her, but not the kind that comes from having nothing to say. She listens, absorbs, and respects the weight of what’s been shared. Her silence feels like an invitation, not a dismissal, and it makes me want to keep talking, to hand her more pieces of myself just to see how gently she'll hold them.
We stand to check the gear boat—a kind of raft with sides that carries backup equipment with extra tanks and a satellite beacon—and something’s immediately off. It’s drifting oddly, sitting low in the water like it’s sulking or wounded. A slow creep of unease starts in my gut. I hop over, land with a thud, and crouch near the stern. One glance at the lines and I know. Not wear. Not bad luck. I grip the frayed rope and curse under my breath. This wasn’t an accident. Someone did this.
“This line was cut,” I say, holding up a frayed end between my fingers. The fibers are clean—no weathering, no fray from strain or tide. Just a single, precise slice. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. My jaw tightens as I turn it toward the light. "This wasn’t time or tide. This was intentional."
Crystal frowns, her gaze flicking to the open water like she’s trying to spot a shadow where none should be. “You think it was a rival? Some other treasure hunter chasing the legend; maybe someone who’s been trailing us longer than we realized?”
“Maybe,” I say, eyes still scanning the edges of the horizon. “But if it was, they’re not just watching. They’re testing the waters—seeing how close we’re getting, and whether we’re smart enough to back off.” I glance down at the clean cut again. “Thing is, I don’t back off.”
Her gaze sharpens and darts around as she swivels her head—almost as if she thinks someone might be watching. “Sabotage?”
“Could be.” I nod slowly, seriously. I think she could be right, but I don't want to kick start some kind of paranoia on her part. “And it means someone knows we’re getting close.”
She crosses her arms, hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists, but there’s a tension in her stance that wasn’t there before—like she’s bracing for the next wave of bad news. “So what now?” she asks, voice low but steady, like she already knows the answer might change everything.
I meet her eyes. Steady. Serious. “This stopped being academic the second someone took a knife to our line. Whoever’s out there isn’t just after gold—they’re willing to play dirty to get it. This is real now, Crystal. Dangerous. And we need to be ready.”
She doesn’t flinch. But her fingers curl around the hem of the hoodie like she suddenly feels the chill again—like the air shifted and brought something colder with it. Her eyes flick to the horizon, then back to mine, and something unspoken passes between us.
She gets it now.
This isn’t just about treasure. Or history. Or even proving herself.
It’s personal. And it’s getting dangerous.
She turns away first, but not before I catch the flicker in her expression—that moment when adrenaline fades and something heavier creeps in.