Chapter 2
The smell of char still drifted up from the creek.
Paige stood at the kitchen window, hands buried in dishwater that had long gone cold, staring at what used to be her dock.
Three days since they'd burned it—middle of the night, flames reflected on the water like something out of a nightmare.
The fire department called it "undetermined origin.
" She called it exactly what it was: a message.
Cooperate or burn.
She pulled her hands from the water and dried them on a towel, cataloging the week's violations with the clinical detachment she'd learned in the Army.
Burned dock, Monday. Dead cat on her doorstep, Wednesday—poor thing had been someone's pet, collar still attached, left where she'd find it during her morning rounds.
Thursday, a late-night visit from two men who'd stood in her parlor and explained, very politely, that Mr. Trask would appreciate an answer by Friday.
Tomorrow was Friday.
Paige moved through the inn's kitchen on autopilot, putting away the last of the breakfast dishes.
The Tidewaters Inn had six guest rooms, a wrap-around porch with views of the creek, and the best crab cakes on the Northern Neck.
Four years she'd poured into this place—renovating the Victorian herself, building a reputation one satisfied guest at a time, creating the peaceful life she'd promised herself when she'd finally stopped being a soldier.
Now smugglers wanted to use it as a waypoint for whatever product they were moving, and her peaceful life was circling the drain.
The front door chimed.
Paige's hand moved automatically toward the small of her back before she remembered she wasn't armed. Old habits. She'd locked her service weapon in the bedroom safe when she'd opened the inn, determined to be someone who didn't need it anymore.
Stupid. She'd been so goddamn stupid.
She smoothed her expression into innkeeper warmth and walked to the front desk, where a man was setting down a duffel bag and looking around with the easy curiosity of a tourist.
Except he wasn't a tourist.
Paige knew it the moment she saw him. Something in the way he held himself—relaxed but ready, weight balanced, eyes tracking the room's layout before they tracked her. The tourist clothes didn't fit right, too new and too generic, like a costume he'd thrown on without caring if it convinced anyone.
"Evening," he said, and the voice matched the rest of him: smooth southern charm laid on thick enough to hide whatever was underneath. "Hope you've got a room available. Drove further than I planned today."
Sun-bleached hair, lean build, easy smile that probably worked on most people. Scars across his hands that didn't come from typing at a desk. He was handsome in a dangerous way—the kind of handsome that made smart women check their exits and stupid women lean closer.
Paige was neither stupid nor a woman who leaned.
"I've got a few rooms open," she said, keeping her voice pleasant and her assessment running. "How many nights?"
"Let's start with three, see how it goes." He pulled out a wallet and slid a card across the counter. "Beautiful place you've got here. Victorian?"
"1892. I renovated it myself."
"That so?" His eyes crinkled with what looked like genuine interest, but Paige had interrogated enough people to know the difference between real and performed. This man was performing—smoothly, expertly, but performing nonetheless. "Must've been a hell of a project."
"It was." She ran his card and handed it back, noting the name. Everett Long. Probably real, probably not—men like this had layers. "Breakfast is served from seven to nine. There's a list of local restaurants in the welcome folder if you need dinner recommendations."
"Appreciate it." He shouldered his duffel and paused, that easy smile still in place. "Quiet spot you've got here. Bet nothing much happens."
The words were innocent. The look he gave her was not.
He knew something. She didn't know what, didn't know whose side he was on, but this man hadn't stumbled onto her inn by accident. No one did, not out here on the quiet end of nowhere.
"Quieter than most places," Paige said carefully. "That's why people come."
"Why people stay, too, I imagine." He held her gaze a beat too long, something sharp flickering behind the charm. "Room?"
"Top of the stairs, second door on the left. The Osprey Suite."
She watched him climb the stairs, tracking the way he moved—fluid, controlled, aware of every creak in the old wood. He positioned his body to keep sight lines open, duffel held in his non-dominant hand.
Military? No. Something else. Something that operated in spaces where the rules were different.
Paige waited until she heard his door close before she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
One more variable in an equation that was already impossible to solve.
The evening crawled by like it was dragging chains.
Paige's other guests—a retired couple from Richmond and a solo traveler writing a book about Chesapeake history—settled into the parlor with wine and conversation.
She made the appropriate sounds of interest, refilled glasses, performed the role of charming innkeeper while her mind ran tactical assessments in the background.
Tomorrow, Trask's men would come for an answer.
She could say yes. Let them use her dock—when she rebuilt it—for their midnight deliveries. Pretend not to see the boats that came and went, the cargo that moved through. Keep her head down and her inn intact.
Everything in her rebelled at the thought.
She'd spent ten years in the Army, three deployments in places where men like Trask thrived like parasites on chaos.
She'd sworn when she left that she was done with that world, done with the violence and the compromises and the things she'd had to become to survive.
But she'd also sworn she wouldn't be a victim. Wouldn't fold just because someone bigger and meaner decided to push.
The man from earlier—Long, or whatever his name really was—drifted into the parlor around seven.
He'd changed into jeans and a worn henley that fit him better than the tourist costume, and the transformation was startling.
Less forgettable. More present. Like he'd decided to let some of the real show through.
He claimed a wingback chair with a book, positioning himself where he could see both the front entrance and the French doors to the porch.
Tactical positioning. He wasn't even trying to hide it.
Paige poured him a glass of wine without being asked and set it on the side table. "The book any good?"
He glanced at the cover like he'd forgotten what he was holding. A History of Virginia's Tidewater Settlements. "Riveting," he said dryly. "Learning all sorts of interesting things about colonial shipping routes."
"That why you're here? History buff?"
"Something like that." He took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. "You've got good instincts, Ms...?"
"Kincaid. And I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do." His voice dropped, losing some of the practiced charm. "You've been watching me since I walked in. Reading my angles, cataloging my tells. Most innkeepers don't do that."
Paige felt something cold slide down her spine—not fear, exactly, but the heightened awareness that came before action. "Most guests don't case my parlor like they're planning an op."
His smile sharpened. "Fair point."
They stared at each other across the quiet parlor, the retired couple oblivious as they debated the best route to Monticello. Something crackled in the air between them—recognition, maybe, or the particular tension of two predators circling.
"I'm not your enemy," he said quietly. "For what that's worth."
"Right now, I don't know what you are."
"That's smart." He leaned back in his chair, gaze never leaving hers. "Keep that edge. You're going to need it."
Before she could respond, headlights swept across the front windows.
Paige's stomach dropped. Too early for a casual visitor, too late for deliveries. And she knew—the way she'd known things in Iraq, the way she'd known things in Afghanistan—exactly who was coming up her drive.
She moved to the window, keeping to the side of the frame. A black SUV, windows tinted, pulling to a stop by the front porch. Two men climbed out, and she recognized them immediately.
The same men from Thursday. Back for her answer.
"Friends of yours?" Long's voice came from directly behind her—she hadn't heard him move—and suddenly he was there, close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back.
"No." Paige watched the men approach, her heart hammering against her ribs. Tomorrow. They were supposed to come tomorrow. "Definitely not."
"Let me guess. They've been making offers you can't refuse."
She turned to face him, and the proximity hit her like a physical blow. He was close—too close—those sharp eyes taking in everything: her fear, her anger, the way her hands wanted to curl into fists.
"I don't know who you are," she said through gritted teeth, "or why you're really here. But those men are dangerous, and I need you to stay out of my way."
Something flickered in his expression—respect, maybe, or the beginning of it. "Dangerous how?"
The doorbell rang.
Paige met his eyes one last time. "Guess you're about to find out."
She walked to the door with her shoulders squared and her chin up, acutely aware of the stranger watching from the parlor shadows. Trask's men stood on her porch, dark suits out of place against the Victorian gingerbread, faces as blank and unreadable as they'd been on Thursday.
"Ms. Kincaid," the taller one said. "Mr. Trask was hoping for an answer."
"He said tomorrow."
"He's an impatient man." The shorter one smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "Surely you've had time to consider his generous offer."
Behind her, Paige felt more than saw Long shift his weight—a predator recognizing the presence of other predators. She had no idea whose side he was on. Didn't know if he was here to save her or bury her.
But she knew one thing with absolute certainty: whatever happened next, she wasn't going to fold.
"I'm considering it," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline screaming through her veins. "But I'm going to need more time."
The men exchanged a look that made her blood run cold.
"Ms. Kincaid," the tall one said softly, "I don't think you understand the position you're in."
Behind her, the stranger in her parlor waited. Outside, the night pressed close and dark. And somewhere in the shadows, the violence she'd tried to leave behind was coming for her whether she wanted it or not.