Chapter 3
Channel stayed in the shadows of the parlor and watched Paige Kincaid handle two men who clearly wanted to hurt her.
She was good. Better than good. The stance looked casual to anyone who didn't know what they were seeing—weight balanced, hands loose at her sides, positioning that kept the doorframe between her and easy grabs. Controlled breathing. Voice steady despite the threat radiating off the men in waves.
Military. Had to be. That kind of control didn't come from running a bed and breakfast.
"Mr. Trask has been very patient," the tall one was saying, his voice carrying the particular softness of men who enjoyed this part of their job. "He doesn't like having his patience tested."
"I'm not testing anything." Paige's tone could have cut glass. "I asked for time. That's not unreasonable."
"What's unreasonable is a woman running a little inn thinking she can say no to people like us." The shorter one stepped closer, deliberately crowding her space. "You've got a nice place here. Shame if something happened to it. Something worse than a dock fire."
Channel's hands curled into fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to put himself between this woman and the threat, to show these bastards what happened when they tried to intimidate someone in Salt Blood territory.
But he waited. Watched. Let her handle it.
Because Paige Kincaid wasn't breaking. Wasn't even bending.
"Is that a threat?" she asked, and there was something in her voice now—something cold and steady that made the shorter man take an unconscious step back.
"Because I've had threats from scarier men than you.
Men with guns and authority and the backing of governments.
You're just two assholes in cheap suits. "
Jesus Christ. Channel felt something hot and unexpected bloom in his chest. Admiration, yeah. But something else too—something possessive and primal that had no business showing up five minutes after meeting a woman.
She was magnificent. Standing there in her flowered apron with steel in her spine, staring down smugglers like she'd done it a hundred times before.
The tall one's expression flickered—surprise, then something meaner. "You've got until noon tomorrow. After that, Mr. Trask stops asking nicely." He leaned in, close enough that Channel saw Paige's jaw tighten. "And trust me, sweetheart. You don't want to see what happens when he stops asking."
They left without another word, the door closing behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded like a countdown.
Paige stood frozen for a long moment, her back to the room. Channel could see the tension vibrating through her—the adrenaline she'd held in check now demanding its due. Her hands shook slightly as she pressed them flat against the doorframe.
The retired couple had retreated upstairs at some point. Smart. The solo traveler was nowhere to be seen. Just Channel and Paige, and the weight of what had just happened pressing down like humidity.
He stepped out of the shadows.
"You handled that well."
She spun, and for a split second he saw it—her hands coming up, body dropping into a fighting stance, eyes hard and ready. Then she recognized him and forced herself to relax, though the tension never fully left her shoulders.
"You were listening."
"Hard not to." He moved closer, letting her see him clearly in the lamplight.
Letting her look. "Those men work for Owen Trask.
Runs a smuggling operation up and down the Virginia coast. Weapons, stolen goods, occasional drug shipments.
Fifteen years in business because he's smart and patient and brutal when he needs to be. "
Paige's eyes narrowed. "You know a lot about him for a tourist."
"I'm not a tourist." Channel reached into his pocket, moving slowly so she wouldn't spook, and pulled out his wallet.
Flipped it open to show the card tucked behind his license—the one with the Salt Blood MC logo.
"Name's Channel. I ride with a club that considers this territory ours.
We don't appreciate outside operators setting up shop without permission. "
She stared at the card, then at him, processing. He watched her recalculate—civilian to threat to... something else. Something she was still figuring out.
"A motorcycle club." Her voice was flat. "You're telling me a biker gang is going to solve my smuggler problem."
"Club, not gang. And yeah, that's exactly what I'm telling you."
"Why should I believe you? For all I know, you're working with Trask. This whole thing could be a setup—pressure from his guys, rescue from you, and suddenly I owe you something."
Smart. Suspicious. Channel liked her more every second.
"You could believe that," he acknowledged.
"But those men who just threatened you? They burned your dock.
Left a dead animal on your doorstep. Came to your place of business and told you you've got until noon tomorrow before things get worse.
" He stepped closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.
"I'm offering help. What's Trask offered you? "
Paige held his gaze for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes. Calculation giving way to something rawer—exhaustion, maybe, or the weight of fighting alone.
"They want to use my property as a waypoint," she said finally. "Deep water access, private dock, road connectivity to the highways. My inn is perfectly positioned for moving product inland."
"And you said no."
"I said no." Her chin lifted, defiant. "I didn't build this place to become a pit stop for criminals."
"So they started the pressure campaign. Escalating violence until you fold or until they decide you're more trouble than you're worth." Channel shook his head. "Trask doesn't give up easy. He's patient, but he's also ruthless. You keep saying no, eventually he stops asking and starts taking."
"I know." The words were quiet, weighted with something that sounded like old familiarity. "I've seen men like him before. I know how this ends."
Channel studied her—really studied her, the way he studied waterways and routes and escape plans.
The military bearing. The controlled breathing even now, when her adrenaline had to be crashing.
The way she'd called his positioning, recognized his tells, stood down threats with the calm of someone who'd done it under fire.
"Where'd you serve?" he asked.
Surprise flickered across her face before she could hide it. "What makes you think I served?"
"Everything about you. The way you move, the way you read a room, the way you just told two armed smugglers to go fuck themselves without actually saying the words." He let his lips curve. "That's not hospitality training."
For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. Then something in her shoulders loosened—not surrender, but acknowledgment. Recognition of someone who saw her clearly.
"Military police. Ten years, three deployments. Iraq twice, Afghanistan once." She met his eyes. "I got out four years ago. Bought this place because I wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere the biggest problem was thread count complaints."
"And now you've got smugglers burning your dock."
"Ironic, isn't it?" The bitterness in her laugh was sharp enough to cut. "I spent a decade in war zones, and the violence finds me anyway."
Channel moved closer still, and this time she didn't back away. They stood inches apart, close enough that he could smell her—something clean and floral underneath the stress. Close enough to see the exact moment her breathing changed.
"Let me help you," he said, and the words came out rougher than he intended. More personal. "My club handles problems like Trask. It's what we do. We protect our territory and the people in it."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Right now? Information. Everything you know about his operation—numbers, patterns, timeline. After that, you let us do our job."
Paige searched his face, looking for something. The lie, maybe. The angle. He let her look, keeping his expression open, showing her more than he usually showed anyone.
"I don't trust institutions," she said finally. "Spent too long inside one that chewed people up and spit them out. The Army, the government—they're all the same. Big machines that use people until they're used up."
"The MC isn't an institution." Channel held her gaze, willing her to understand.
"It's family. Brothers who'd die for each other.
Women who become part of something bigger than themselves.
" He paused, letting the words land. "Trask sees you as an obstacle.
A variable to be controlled or eliminated.
We see you as someone worth protecting."
She was quiet for a long moment, the old house settling around them, the distant sound of the creek filling the silence. Channel could see her thinking—the soldier assessing options, calculating odds, weighing the risk of trusting a stranger against the certainty of facing Trask alone.
"If I say yes," she said slowly, "what happens next?"
"Tomorrow morning, I bring my brothers. You give us the full picture—everything you know about Trask's operation. We make a plan." He let his gaze drop to her mouth for just a second, a deliberate provocation. "And then we handle it."
"Just like that."
"Just like that."
Paige stared at him, and something passed between them—understanding, maybe, or the beginning of trust. Two people who'd learned to hide what they really were, finally recognizing each other beneath the masks.
"Okay," she said. "Tomorrow morning."
Channel nodded, stepping back to give her space even though every instinct told him to stay close. To keep himself between her and anything that might threaten her.
Too fast. Too much. He'd known this woman for hours, and already she was getting under his skin in ways that felt dangerous.
"Get some sleep," he said, moving toward the stairs. "I'll be upstairs if anything happens."
"Channel." Her voice stopped him at the landing. "That's not your real name."
"No." He turned, giving her that easy smile—the one that was mostly real, for once. "But it's the one that matters."
She watched him go, arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable. But Channel could feel her gaze on his back all the way up the stairs, and he knew—with the certainty of someone who'd spent his life reading situations—that Paige Kincaid was already changing everything.