Chapter 18
Makari
Summer in Bar Harbor looks wrong on a day like this.
The sky is too open, too blue, the kind of endless northern-coast blue that feels carved out of some older world.
The harbor glitters beneath it as the helicopter cuts over the water, blades chopping through the warm air with rhythmic violence.
Waves catch the late light, a shimmer of gold and white that should be calming.
It isn’t.
Nova Scotia was supposed to clear my head.
It didn’t. It only made things worse. I spent the entire flight there thinking of Roxanne poised over me this morning, her breath catching with each downward stroke of her hips.
I spent the return flight trying not to think about it. That didn’t work either.
And when the coastline opened up in the distance—jagged, dark forest meeting deep blue water—I saw something else entirely.
Andrea.
A small girl with wild curiosity and no caution. I could imagine her on the beach—running straight into cold waves, pretending the ocean was breathing under her feet.
I pictured her face if she saw this view from up here. The shock of it. The wonder. Her questions, endless and bright.
Would Roxy ever let me take her? A smile twists my lips at the thought; no doubt she’d worry, insist that a flight like this was too dangerous, too risky. But if I promised to keep Andi safe with my entire being…would Roxanne trust me?
The rot of that question has stayed under my ribs for hours now, growing.
The skids touch down on the helipad with a jolt.
The blades settle into slower rotations, scattering warm wind up the ridge.
Below the landing platform, summer is in full force.
The slopes are thick with maples and spruce, heavy with green.
A few of the staff nod in acknowledgment from the path leading down toward the estate.
They look relaxed tonight, more than usual, because the weather is mild and we’re between shipments.
Dima is waiting by one of the SUVs, leaning against the door with that look he wears when he’s bored and ready to cause trouble. His shirt is stretched across his shoulders, a map of sawdust smudges from whatever he did today. He straightens when he sees me.
“Boss.” His eyes narrow. “You look like hell.”
“Sharp observation.”
“Productive trip?”
“No.”
“Ah.” He nods sagely. “Woman trouble?”
I don’t answer. That’s enough of an answer.
He smirks but doesn’t press. “Jesse’s been tearing up the estate looking for you. Something about the Western perimeter.”
Of course. God forbid I have a day of rest. “Where is he now?”
“Your office. Probably pacing a hole in the floor.”
“Fine. Go home.”
“You sure? I can stay and watch you glower at emails.” He thumbs his Glock with a smirk, as if anything on my computer screen could be a real threat.
“Go,” I repeat.
Dima lifts both hands like I’ve offended him and strolls off, whistling something obscene. I head inside, the warm evening breeze trailing after me until the door shuts and seals it out.
The contrast hits immediately—inside is cool, quiet, the air dense with the resinous scent of polished wood and the faint tang of gun oil. My boots echo on the slate floor as I go through the atrium and into the private wing of the building.
Jesse is standing in the corner of my office like a statue dragged in from the forest—broad shoulders, windburn face, arms crossed and expression grim. His light jacket is thrown over a chair and covered in pine needles. There’s dried mud on his boots.
He looks like summer never happened to him at all.
“Took you long enough,” he says.
“I was two hours away.” I step around him, loosening my cuffs.
Jesse blows out a breath. “We’ve got a problem.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Just one?”
He ignores that. “Southwest of the ridge. Past the old logging road.”
“That’s a restricted zone.”
“Yeah. Somebody didn’t care.”
My pulse sharpens, and I go still, turning my full attention to him. No one ignores the Ursa Arcane signs. “Explain.”
He hands me a folder. Inside are photos of charred ground, twisted metal fragments, and half-melted crates. A weapons site. One of mine.
My jaw tightens around a curse.
“Burned?” I ask.
“Burned,” he confirms. “Deliberate, clean, efficient. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were hitting.”
I flip through the photos again, slower this time. The ruin of it. The insult of it. What was once orderly is now scattered ash. “Why didn’t we catch it?”
“We’ve been focused on the eastern ridge, and the tracking opportunities there. With nothing moving through right now as far as goods, I’ve put the men on trail cameras—finding the bigger game, prize bucks, for the party arriving next week. The west and south have been on a skeleton crew.”
Of course; the other side of operations. Guided hunts and the like.
The summer light streaming through the window makes the edges brighter, as if mocking the whole thing.
“Who found it?” I ask.
“One of the guides. Not hunting; checking the owl nesting boxes. They had a group from Seattle up there today. He saw the smoke earlier this morning. Went to check it out in the afternoon.”
“And?”
“And he found these.” Jesse unfolds another piece of paper. Boot prints. Several. Deep in the soft earth, layered over each other. “Not hunters,” he says.
He doesn’t have to explain why. I see the pattern. Military-style tread. Heavy gait. Cold precision in the placement.
“Another crew,” I say, low.
“That’s my guess.” He pauses, voice lower now. “Not locals. No one would dare.”
The office feels smaller suddenly, like the walls have been nudged inward. Summer outside, threat inside. Sweat at the nape of my neck despite the air conditioning. No one has tried to touch my property since a very miscalculated mistake right after my father died.
I toss the photos on my desk. “How long?”
“A week, maybe.” Jesse rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe two.”
“And you’re telling me now?”
“You were in Nova Scotia,” he says. “And before that, you were—” He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs between us.
You were with her. Distracted.
I ignore the dig. “What else?”
“That’s it so far. But I don’t like the timing.”
“Neither do I.”
I stand there for a moment, staring at the ruined crates, the footsteps, the way the grass around the site lies flat as if something heavy landed there. Or crouched there. Watched.
Heat flares under my skin. Anger sharp enough to taste. Everything feels like it’s slipping. My focus. The neat lines of my empire smudging under a hand I can’t see.
Maybe because part of me isn’t looking at the lines anymore.
Part of me is looking at the woman who stood in my private quarters this morning with her breath caught on a single word.
Part of me is looking at a child who looks at the ocean as if it speaks to her.
Part of me is stretched thin between something I’ve never wanted and something I can’t afford to lose.
That fracture is exactly the kind of thing an enemy syndicate would exploit. Do they know? Do they know about Roxanne or Andi? It would be devastating. I’d kill. I’d burn through this entire state for them.
“Put everyone on alert,” I say.
“All outdoorsmen?” Jesse asks.
“Yes, quietly.” My voice sharpens. “I don’t want panic or gossip. But if there’s anyone out there, we'll find them. And we will find them first.”
Jesse nods. “Copy that.”
“And Jesse,” I add, my voice slowing with the weight of it, “tell your guides to keep tourists out of that area. Make something up if you need to.”
He snorts. “I’ll tell them there’s a horny moose in the brush.”
“Something believable.”
He cracks a smile. “That is believable.”
I shake my head, exasperated, and he heads for the door, slinging his coat over his shoulder. When the door shuts, the office goes still.
Too still.
Even with the late summer sun leaning golden against the windows, the room feels dim. I lean my hands on the desk, folding forward, head down for a moment, letting the tension settle into a shape I can name.
Someone is pushing into my territory. Someone bold and organized. Was burning that shipment a threat or a game? A move to take hold?
I’ll have to reach out to my partners in Toronto, let them know they’ll be missing about fifty semi-automatics, ten ghost guns, two ammo crates, and C4.
The real problem is that I’m distracted enough for them to try.
I grit my teeth. That fact alone twists something dangerous inside me.
It’s been years since I've let anything personal get in the way of the job. Years since I let anyone close enough to tug on the chain that keeps every part of my world upright. But one night six years ago—one night I never thought I’d see again—turned out not to be a loose thread, but the seam of something that’s unraveling me.
I straighten, the room spinning just enough to make me aware of how long the day has been. How tired I am. Not physically. Something else; something deeper.
My bathroom is through a small hallway, the door half open. I push it the rest of the way, letting the warm light spill out. The space is simple: stone tiles, steam glass, drawers of folded towels, the faint scent of cedar from the sauna across the hall.
I turn the shower on. The pipes groan and then settle, water streaming hot and steady. I strip without thinking, walking straight under the heat, letting it hit my shoulders first. As always, the scars along my right side tighten before they relax.
Steam fills the air quickly.
The burn of the water isn’t enough to clear my head. I close my eyes and see her.
Roxanne, her back arched off my desk, lips parted, fingers tight on my shirt like she was pulling me closer and pushing me away at the same time. The sound she made when I pressed my mouth to hers. The look in her eyes afterward—furious, breathless, wanting, afraid.
I brace one hand on the tile.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
But stopping feels impossible.
My hand moves down, slowly at first, then tighter when the image of her moaning on top of me sharpens. I envision her legs spreading to take me better, her thick thighs like warm dough under my greedy hands. I have a chokehold on the base of my cock, not wanting to let go. Not yet.
I imagine her again. Against the door. Against the wall. In this shower. Scenarios that haven’t happened yet, but that I want. Warm water rushing over her dark hair, her hands on my chest, her mouth yielding under mine.
Each stroke sends a shudder through me. It’s sharp enough to force a groan from my throat. I’m close already. She does this to me. Two more strokes, the swipe of my thumb over the tip already tight and pulsing—
When it’s over, I lean my forehead against the tile and let the water wash everything away: the heat, the tension, the frustration. It doesn’t wash away the truth.
I turn the water off, grab a towel, and step out into the humid air of the bathroom. My phone buzzes on the counter. I almost ignore it, assuming it’s Jesse again.
It isn’t.
Roxanne: Thank you for finding a permanent sitter for Andrea.
The message is short but warm at the edges, as if she didn’t mean to reveal she was relieved, grateful, or thinking about me at all.
I stare at the text for a long moment, towel forgotten in my hand.
It’s ridiculous how something so small can cut through the entire day. It cut through the ruined weapon stash, the enemy tracks, the hours of irritation and exhaustion and settled in my chest like a quiet weight.
She let me help.
She let me do something for our daughter.
My pulse softens, an easing low in my chest, one I don’t let myself feel for anyone. And yet here it is.
A father. I’m a father.
The towel slips from my fingers onto the floor.
I pick up the phone, let out one long breath, and sit on the edge of the bed, looking out at the brilliant, infuriatingly beautiful sunset over the forest. Oranges, pinks, pale blues. The kind of sky Andrea would love. Somewhere nearby is a river that leads right to her.
This is the kind of sky she might someday see from the helicopter.
If Roxy lets me, if she trusts me. Let me help, I beg, not willing to type the words out.
I don’t respond right away. I hold the phone, watching the message glow on the screen, feeling something shift, subtle and deep.
For the first time all day, the anger fades. The danger, the threat remain—sharp as the ruined crates in Jesse’s photos. But the storm inside me softens just enough to breathe.
Just enough to hope.
Just enough to realize that even with enemy boots in my forests and fire on my land, the thing terrifying me most isn’t the threat outside.
It’s the one inside—the fear that I might never earn a place in my daughter’s life.
I pull in a breath, slow and steady.