Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Marie
The sun was warm on my shoulders, the ocean sparkling turquoise in every direction, and I was pretty sure I'd never been happier in my entire life.
"Papa, I'm telling you, you're doing it wrong," I was laughing as I tried to wrest the paddle from his grip. "You're supposed to pull the water back, not slap it."
"I know how to paddle a kayak, Marie," he protested, but he was grinning too, his face creasing with laugh lines I'd memorized years ago and had been so afraid I'd never see again. "I've been fishing these waters since before you were born."
"Then why are we going in circles?"
"We are not going in—" He paused, looking around at the distinctly circular wake we'd left behind us. "Okay, maybe a little."
I burst out laughing, the sound carrying across the water, and Honey barked from her position at the front of the kayak like she was personally offended by our navigation skills. She stood there like a little captain in her pink collar, barking at every wave that dared approach our baby pink kayak.
The kayak Wade had bought me. He’d bought me everything that was in my cart from that day, and somehow it all arrived in just a few days.
The pink was soft and pretty in the bright sunlight—glossy and perfect. Wade had, of course, shown it to me with a big bow on top of it.
He was thoroughly spoiling me, and I loved every bit of it.
Now Papa and I were attempting to take it out in front of Wade's estate, and Honey had appointed herself captain despite having zero qualifications.
We were both wearing swim shorts and long-sleeved sun shirts—mine was pink, of course, while Papa’s was navy blue. The UV-protective fabric shielded our skin from the harsh Caribbean sun, and my special sleeve protected my healing burn underneath.
No life vests, though. We were island people, born and raised in these waters. Life vests were for tourists.
"Here," Papa sighed, finally relinquishing the paddle with exaggerated reluctance. "You take it. Show your old man how it's done."
"You're not old," I countered automatically, taking the paddle and adjusting my grip.
Wade was somewhere inside the estate, probably in his office, supposedly getting work done. But I knew him well enough by now to know he was watching us through his window more than he was watching his laptop screen. Overprotective didn't even begin to cover it.
I dipped the paddle into the water, pulling us forward in a smooth glide instead of the chaotic zigzag Papa had been creating. The kayak cut through the gentle waves, Honey barked her approval, and Papa settled back with a satisfied nod.
"Much better," he said. "See? I taught you well."
"You didn’t teach me about kayaking," I pointed out, grinning. "You're a fisherman, not a kayaker."
"Same principles," he insisted, trailing one hand in the water. "Boat is boat."
I laughed, feeling light and warm. The ocean stretched out in every direction, endless blue meeting endless sky, the water so clear I could see fish darting beneath us. The estate sat on the shore behind us, white and gleaming in the sun.
I steered us parallel to the shore and reached up to touch one of my curls. They bounced and coiled around my fingers, still getting used to the freedom of not being braided down.
Sylvia had spent half a day carefully cutting out all my braids, then conditioning and styling my natural curls until they formed a soft halo around my face. I'd cried looking in the mirror.
"My curls look like Mama's," I reminisced softly, touching another one.
Papa's expression softened behind me, his eyes getting that distant, fond look. "They do. Exactly like hers. She'd be so proud of you, baby girl."
My throat tightened, but in a good way. The kind that came with healing instead of breaking.
"So," Papa said after a moment, clearly trying to lighten the mood, "tell me more about these girls you've been texting. The ones from the group chat."
"Oh!" I perked up, switching the paddle to the other side. "Yeah, it's been amazing. There are twenty of us total, and we’ve all been talking. Everyone's meeting their families soon, going home. One met her mom and two little brothers yesterday and sent us like fifty photos."
My chest warmed just thinking about it. Seeing their faces light up in those pictures, seeing them wrapped in their families' arms, knowing they were safe.
"That's wonderful, baby girl," Papa said softly. "I'm so glad you girls have each other."
"Me too. We’re all saying goodbye at this big party soon." I grinned. "Oh, and Wade said I can paint his bedroom walls pink."
Papa's eyebrows shot up. "Wade's bedroom?"
"Our bedroom," I corrected, feeling my cheeks heat. “It's our room now.”
Papa chuckled, shaking his head. "That man is completely gone for you."
"I know," I smiled, unable to keep it off my face.
Movement on the shore caught my eye. Sylvia was walking down from the estate with a tray, and even from here I could see the steam rising from it.
"Is that—" I squinted. "Oh my god, is that fried fish?"
Papa laughed. "Smells like it."
I paddled us toward shore faster, Honey barking excitedly like she could smell it too. We wrestled the kayak up onto the sand together, and the second Honey's paws hit solid ground, she took off running toward Sylvia and the food.
“No no no!" Sylvia laughed, holding the tray high above her head while Honey jumped and barked. "This is for the humans!"
I jogged over, grinning, and my nose confirmed it. Fried fish, perfectly golden with little bottles on the tray—at least three different kinds of hot sauce.
"Sylvia, you're amazing.” I reached for a piece.
She handed me the tray with a warm smile. "Enjoy, love. I know Mr. Easton can't handle the real heat."
"He really can't," I agreed, already reaching for the scotch bonnet sauce. Wade had tried it exactly once and spent the next twenty minutes dying while I laughed at him.
Sylvia turned to head back inside, but Papa spoke up.
"Stay," he suggested, gesturing to the sand beside us. "Join us. I'd like to get to know the woman who's been taking such good care of my daughter here."
Sylvia paused, looking surprised, then smiled. "If you're sure..."
"I insist."
I caught Papa's eye and grinned, biting into my fish to hide my expression. I knew something he didn't—Sylvia was super, super single. Just like him. She’d been for years, according to the gossip I'd picked up from the chef.
We settled at the table deck, Honey finally getting a tiny piece of plain fish as a prize, and I dove into my food. The spice was perfect, the fish was flaky and hot, and the hot sauce was delicious.
I was halfway through my second piece when I felt a weird pulling sensation in my lower belly. Not pain exactly, but... pressure. Like something tightening and releasing.
I paused, my hand on my stomach.
"You okay, baby girl?" Papa asked, noticing.
"Yeah, just—" Another pull, stronger this time. "I think I need to use the bathroom. Be right back."
I stood up, brushing sand off my shorts, and leaned down to kiss Papa's cheek. "Don't eat all the fish without me."
"No promises," he teased.
I patted Honey's head, then pressed my hand to my lower abdomen as another wave of pressure hit. It didn’t feel like the bathroom. Just... tight, uncomfortable.
I walked to the deck, stepped under the automatic tap to rinse the sand off my feet, then padded inside the estate. The pressure was getting stronger. It was a low, tight feeling that made me want to curl up slightly as I walked.
I headed upstairs to Wade's office, one hand still pressed to my belly, trying to figure out what was wrong.
It didn't feel like I needed to use the bathroom, didn't feel like I was going to throw up. Just this low, insistent cramping that was getting progressively worse.
I pushed open Wade's office door without knocking, because I was his darling and I never had to knock, and found Thomas sitting in one of the chairs across from Wade's desk.
Thomas looked up immediately, gave me a small, knowing smile, and stood.
"I'll leave you to it," he said to Wade, then nodded at me as he passed. "He was hardly focusing anyway."
"I was focusing perfectly well," Wade protested, his eyes already on me, tracking the way I was holding my stomach, the way I was standing slightly hunched.
Thomas just chuckled and closed the door behind him.
The second we were alone, I let my face crumple, and all my neediness was freed.
"Daddy," I whined, padding across his office toward his desk. "It hurts."
I patted my lower belly to show him where, and his expression immediately shifted into concern.
"Come here, darling."
I didn't need to be told twice. I climbed right into his lap, curling up against his chest despite the fact that I was still damp from the ocean, my pink sun shirt clinging to me, my shorts sandy and wet.
He sighed, but it was indulgent, fond, his arms coming around me. "You're getting my clothes all wet."
"Don't care," I mumbled into his shoulder.
He kissed my hair—my natural curls that he seemed absolutely obsessed with, constantly touching and playing with them—and his hand came to rest on my stomach over my shirt.
"Now, where hurts, little darling?" he asked softly. "Tell daddy what's wrong."
"There," I whined, pressing his hand more firmly against my lower belly. "It just... it hurts."
He hummed thoughtfully, his thumb rubbing slow circles over my shirt. Then his hand slid up slightly, pushing the damp fabric up to expose my bare skin, and continued those warm, soothing circles directly on my belly.
It felt so good, warm and comforting.
"Lower.” I shifted slightly in his lap. "It's lower than that."
His hand drifted down, fingers slipping just beneath the waistband of my swim shorts to press against my lower abdomen.
"Here?" he asked.
"Yes," I breathed, nodding. "Right there."
His fingers pressed gently, rubbing slow circles, and I felt myself start to relax despite the cramping.
Then his hand moved lower, much lower, over the soft skin of my heat, his fingers pressing there instead.
I gasped and swatted his hand away. "Not there! That's not where it hurts!"
He chuckled and moved his hand back up to where I'd indicated, rubbing those warm circles again.
"Just checking, darling."
I huffed against his shoulder, but the warmth of his palm was helping. The pressure was still there, but his touch made it more bearable.
He worked in silence for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin, then slowly moved lower again. They went farther down this time, dipping past my bikini line.
He paused.
"Marie.” His voice took on a different quality. "Why are you so wet already?"
My face flamed. "I'm not! I shouldn't be, at least. I was just in the ocean, but I dried off—"
"Not that kind of wet, darling."
He used his free hand to hold the waistband of my swim shorts open slightly, then withdrew his other hand from inside them.
He held his fingers up to the sunlight streaming through his office window, examining them.
They were red.
Bright red. With blood.