Chapter 20
Makari
Bar Harbor is too bright today. The kind of crisp, crystalline brightness that makes the water look glass-cut and the sky unnaturally wide.
Tourists crowd the sidewalks near the pier, spilling out of cafés and rental shops, wearing shorts and sunglasses and that relaxed coastal glow that says their biggest concern is whether the ice cream will melt before they finish it.
Many of them are the reason that the legitimate side of my business thrives, but they’re an annoyance today.
I should be able to tolerate this. I should be able to walk through this town, sit down for a meeting with a lawyer I had flown in, and pretend everything is under control.
But I’m not under control. Not even close.
And the reason is walking three steps behind me, head down, hair catching in the summer wind like it’s trying to give away every thought she’s trying to hide. Roxy hasn’t said more than a handful of words since we left the house.
But I can feel something building around her—something tense, hot, brittle. Each time she glances at me, she seems to be weighing a decision, teetering on the edge of silence and confession. Is it another man? Or has she decided that she doesn’t want Andi seeing me again?
I should ignore it. I should keep my mind on the meeting ahead.
I can’t.
“Roxanne,” I say finally, without stopping. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitates. Her shoulders lift, then drop. “I need to tell you something.”
I don’t respond. Not verbally. But I slow my pace, enough that she knows she has my attention. Enough that she knows she can speak to me.
“Eric came by the house,” she says. “The deputy, I mean.”
Everything inside me stills.
“When?” My voice drops into that low, cold register I never use with her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looks away. “I didn’t want to start something. And it was just—he showed up. As a ‘neighborly visit.’ Deputy checking in on people living out in the woods.”
“Bullshit.”
Her eyes flick to mine at the force in the word, but she doesn’t disagree.
“He was looking around too much,” she says softly. “Like he was studying my life. The house. And Andi.”
A short, violent beat of silence cracks between us.
“Is she safe?” I demand.
Her surprise is immediate—her brows lifting, her mouth parting. As if she expected my anger first, not that question.
“She’s okay,” she says. “She didn’t understand what was happening. Though she definitely didn’t like him.” A small smile graces her lips at that, and a fierce fire of pride runs through me, catching me off guard.
“And if she had been hurt?” My voice is quieter now, but sharper. “If he had touched her—”
“He didn’t,” she insists. “He didn’t go near her. He only caught a glimpse of her.”
I’m not reassured. Not remotely. I want to turn around, get in the car, and go tear the door off that man’s house.
That excuse for a deputy. I’ve made a point to stay out of politics in Bar Harbor, not wanting to get involved in the games.
But now, I want to make it very clear what happens to anyone who threatens my family.
My family.
The thought lands heavily, steadily, and right in the center of my chest. But before I can follow it, she keeps talking.
“There’s more,” she says, drawing in a breath. “You were right before. Eric… he’s my ex.” The argument a few weeks ago comes back to me—before I knew Andi was mine. When I foolishly accused Roxanne of fraternizing with him, of considering another man. Even looking at one.
The tourists around us become irrelevant. The heat in the air becomes irrelevant. It feels like the world stops to listen.
I turn fully toward her.
“Your ex,” I repeat, slow.
She nods, embarrassed. “From college.”
My jaw tightens. “And he came to your house?”
“He said he wanted to ‘get to know the neighbors.’ But that was just pretense. He wants information.” She rubs her arms, anxiety pulsing through her movements. “He owes people money. Dangerous people. And they want something from him—something that has to do with Ursa Arcane.”
A bitter laugh leaves me before I can stop it. “So he’s stupid.”
“And desperate,” she whispers. “That’s what worries me.”
I step closer, the summer heat tightening between us. “And you used to…” I can’t finish it. I don’t want to hear it, but I have to. “You dated him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The question escapes harsher than intended.
Roxy bristles. “Because I was young and stupid. And he—” She shakes her head. “When he ended things, he made it sound like it was my fault.”
“What did he say?”
She hesitates—ashamed, lips pressed together.
“He said I was too much,” she murmurs. “Too much of a handful.”
I stare at her. Then, quietly—cold enough to frost over the heat in the air—the double meaning bleeds into my mind. A handful. I’ll fucking kill him.
“So what your sister said that night was true.”
Her eyes look up in surprise, widening. “You remember that?”
I let my gaze drag over her body, ignoring the couple who walk by and eye us, murmuring. Each curve is luscious, full, and my hands flex, wanting to touch her. “I remember. A man like Eric Harlan can’t handle a woman like you, Roxanne. Can’t give you what you need.”
The summer heat is suddenly back and blazing. Her breath catches.
Because I am looking at her. Really looking. At the curves he dismissed. At the softness he found inconvenient. At the fire in her eyes that man tried to snuff out.
She swallows. Hard. Heat rolls through her—I see it, I feel it, the way her pulse jumps in her throat.
But this isn’t the place or the moment. And the lawyer is waiting. I force my eyes away, hating the effort it takes.
“We’re going to talk about this later,” I say. “I need every detail about him. Every word he said. Every threat.”
She nods, but her breathing is still uneven. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You think trouble doesn’t exist simply because you refuse to name it?
” She flinches—not at the words, but at the truth in them.
I reach out, let my hand brush down her arm, feeling her tremble.
“Roxanne. What I’m most concerned about is Andi.
Fuck his secret hunting; if he touches her, I’ll slit his throat. ”
She stumbles at the harsh words, children’s laughter suddenly breaking out all around us. I catch her arm and steady her. A few steps behind, Vadim watches impassively.
We reach the corner where the law office sits—an old stone building with navy shutters and a slate roof that glints silver in the sun. The harbor breeze rolls through, carrying salt and lilac. It’s almost peaceful.
The meeting won’t be long.
I step toward the door. She moves to follow, but I stop her with a raised hand. “No,” I say. “You’re not coming in.”
She opens her mouth. “But—” Her hand goes to her purse, where her laptop and notebook are tucked away. Normally I’d expect her to track every word, every task that needs to be completed, every promise.
“I said, no.” My voice cuts clean through the warm air. “This meeting is mine.”
“I work for you.”
“And I decide where you’re needed.”
Her frustration sparks instantly—pink rising in her cheeks. “You don’t have to talk to me like that.”
I look at her then. Really look.
She’s scared, and trying not to be. Trying to hold herself together after a man came to her home and threatened the fragile stability she’s fought for.
I let out a breath, step closer, and lower my voice.
“Roxanne.”
She meets my gaze reluctantly.
“I will keep you safe,” I say. “You and Andrea. Whatever this man thinks he can do—it stops now.”
Her lips part. In relief.
Just a flicker, but I see it. Feel it. Something loosens in her posture, like I removed a weight she’d been hiding under her clothes.
“You promise?” she asks softly.
“Yes,” I say. “I promise.”
Her eyes dart briefly to my mouth, then away. She nods, swallowing whatever emotion is trying to rise in her. The air between us pulls tight again, a thread we’ve been tugging at for weeks.
But I break it first.
“I’ll be out in an hour,” I say, turning toward the door. She steps back, hands curling at her sides, the summer sunlight warming her hair into copper. Vadim is close behind, watching her. He gives me a nod; a promise.
I pause just long enough to look at her one more time. Then I walk inside, letting the door close behind me.