Bear of the Deep (Tides of Fate #3)

Chapter 1

GRAYSON

Village of Stormhaven, Isle of Skara

Off the Coast of Scotland

Present Day

The woman on my dock doesn't belong here.

She stands at the edge of the weathered planks, one hand shading her eyes against the morning sun, watching my boat cut through the Sound.

Tourist, probably. Another mainlander come to gawk at quaint island life before fleeing back to civilization.

They always leave eventually, unable to handle the isolation or the storms or the way the Isle of Skara demands everything from those who stay.

I guide the trawler into its slip, already planning how to get rid of her quickly.

The nets are heavy with the morning's catch, and there's work waiting at the Warden's Tower that won't do itself.

The ancient watchtower has stood sentinel over these waters for centuries, its stone walls weathered by countless Atlantic storms, and every Hale who's called it home has understood that duty comes before comfort.

My grandfather taught me that lesson before I was old enough to understand what I was protecting, and his father taught him the same.

No time for interruptions, especially not ones that arrive uninvited on private property.

She doesn't move as I secure the lines. Doesn't flinch when I adjust my weight and the boat rocks beneath me.

Most people step back when they see me up close because I'm not small and I'm not soft.

Years of hauling nets and weathering storms have carved me into something hard and uncompromising, the kind of man sensible folk give a wide berth.

But she just stands there, waiting with a patience that suggests she's used to difficult subjects.

"Private dock," I say without looking at her. The words come out as a growl, roughened by salt air and too many years of talking more to the sea than to people. "You're trespassing."

"Grayson Hale?" Her voice carries the crisp precision of education, the kind that comes from universities on the mainland where people study things instead of living them. "I'm Dr. Isla Calder. Marine biologist. I sent you an email last week about your fishing routes."

I haul myself onto the dock, and the old wood groans under my weight. "I don't read emails from people I don't know."

"I gathered that when you didn't respond.

" She doesn't back down, doesn't give ground even as I tower over her by nearly a foot.

Most people would have retreated by now, but she holds her position like the planks beneath her feet are rightfully hers.

"I'm researching unusual whale migration patterns in the North Atlantic.

Your waters specifically. I need access to you and your boat and your knowledge of the local channels. "

"No."

"Mr. Hale, if you'd just let me explain—"

"I don't need explanations. I need you off my property."

She doesn't retreat, doesn't show any of the intimidation that usually sends unwanted visitors scurrying back to the main harbor. Instead, she tucks the tablet she’s been holding back into her messenger bag and rummages around for a moment before pulling out a small notebook, flipping it open to scan handwritten notes.

"The locals say you know channels that don't appear on any official charts.

That you can read storms before they show on radar.

That the fish practically swim into your nets because you understand the water better than anyone alive. "

"Locals talk too much."

"They also say you're the most stubborn man on the island, so I came prepared for resistance." A ghost of a smile crosses her face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm not asking you to like me, Mr. Hale. I'm asking you to help me understand what's happening to the whales."

"The answer is no. Get off my dock."

She tilts her head and studies me like I'm a specimen under glass, a problem to be analyzed and solved rather than a man who just told her to leave.

There's something unsettling about the directness of her gaze, about the way her eyes seem to change color depending on how the light catches them.

She's not conventionally beautiful, not in the polished way of the tourist women who sometimes wander down from the resort on the north end of the island.

Her features are sharper than that, more interesting, with high cheekbones and a stubborn set to her jaw that suggests she's heard the word "no" before and found ways around it.

She's dressed practically, at least. Sturdy boots, weatherproof jacket, hair pulled back in a braid that keeps it out of her face.

Someone told her what to expect from the Isle of Skara's climate, even if they failed to mention that showing up unannounced on a stranger's private property rarely leads to productive conversations.

"I'm willing to pay for your time," she continues, undeterred. "The university is funding this research, and we can negotiate a fair rate for charter services. I'm not asking for charity."

"Not interested in your money." I move past her toward the storage shed where the morning's catch needs processing.

The shed sits at the landward end of the dock, weathered to silver-gray by decades of salt spray, its doors hanging slightly crooked on hinges that have survived more storms than I can count.

Fish won't keep forever, especially not in this weather, and the gulls are already circling overhead with predatory interest. "Go back to wherever you came from.

The waters around Skara aren't for study. "

"Why not?"

The question stops me mid-stride because it carries genuine confusion rather than challenge.

She's followed me, her footsteps light but determined on the weathered boards, and she's close enough now that her scent reaches me properly for the first time.

Salt and clean skin and lavender soap on the surface, but underneath there's a deeper note, older and wilder.

My bear lifts his head from the drowsy place where he usually rests during daylight hours.

"Because I said so." The words come out rougher than I intend.

"That's not a scientific answer."

"I'm not a scientist. I'm a fisherman, and you're wasting my time."

Her jaw sets with a stubbornness that would be admirable under different circumstances.

"The whales are dying, Mr. Hale. They're beaching themselves on shores they've avoided for centuries and changing their migration patterns in ways that don't make biological sense.

Something in these waters is affecting them, and I need to find out what before more of them die. "

"Nature's unpredictable. Sometimes things just happen without explanation."

"I don't believe that." She steps closer, near enough that I could reach out and touch her if I were foolish enough to try.

"And I don't think you do either. You spend more time on these waters than anyone else on this island.

I've asked around, and everyone says the same thing.

Grayson Hale knows every current, every channel, every hidden place the sea keeps.

If there's something wrong out there, you've seen it. "

She's right, and that's the problem. I have seen it.

The whales have been passing through waters they've avoided for generations, swimming too close to the deep places where the boundaries between worlds grow thin.

They're circling the trenches where shifters have communed with ancient powers since before humans built their first boats, drawing attention to locations no outsider should ever discover.

That's exactly why she has to leave.

"There's nothing wrong with the waters," I lie, keeping my voice flat and final. "You're chasing shadows, Dr. Calder. Go home."

"I can't." Her voice softens and loses some of that academic certainty, revealing something rawer underneath. "I've dedicated my entire life to understanding the ocean and protecting it. If I walk away from this, I'm abandoning everything I believe in. Everything I've worked for."

The words hit harder than they should because I understand dedication.

I understand the bone-deep need to defend something larger than yourself, to stand guard between the deep places and those who would exploit them.

The trenches are mine to watch over. Mine to keep safe.

Mine to shield against anyone who might threaten what sleeps in those lightless depths.

But this woman with her questions and her data and her determination represents exactly the kind of threat I've spent my life preparing to stop. Scientists dig until they find answers, and some answers should stay buried beneath a thousand feet of black water.

"You should go," I say again, gentler this time despite myself.

"The waters around Skara are dangerous for people who don't know them.

Storms come up fast out here, faster than you'd believe possible, and the currents will pull you under before you realize you're in trouble. Outsiders don't survive here long."

"Then help me." She meets my eyes without flinching, without any of the deference most people show when they realize they're pushing against someone who won't be pushed. "Show me what I need to know. Keep me safe while I do my work."

A rough laugh escapes my chest before I can stop it. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I'm asking for help from someone who knows the Sound better than anyone alive." She reaches into the messenger bag slung across her shoulder and pulls out a tablet, swiping through screens with practiced efficiency. "Look at this and tell me you don't see a problem."

I don't want to look. Looking means engaging, and engaging means getting pulled deeper into something I should be pushing away. But my eyes drop to the screen despite my better judgment, and what I see there makes my blood run cold.