Chapter Eighteen
REID
I’M BACK IN the Gulf—salt burning my nose, the taste of brine thick on my tongue.
Gunfire rattles in quick bursts, each shot vibrating through the sea like a drumbeat against my bones.
The strobe of muzzle flashes filters down in fractured bursts of light, turning the water around me into a flickering grave.
A voice cuts through the comm in my ear, sharp and urgent. “Move, move—” Then static. Then nothing.
I twist in the dark water, straining to hear, lungs burning. Where’s my team? I can’t see them. Just shadows, a flash of limbs, the churn of bubbles that vanish too fast. My chest seizes. The silence is absolute now, swallowing everything. I’m alone.
I jolt awake, lungs heaving, my legs tangled in the sheets.
My heart slams against my ribs, sweat beading along my hairline.
My cabin is dark and still, but my pulse still refuses to slow.
The silence feels like an enemy I can’t see.
I swing my feet to the floor, press my palms into my eyes, trying to breathe past the pounding in my chest. Nights like these don’t come as often now, but when they do, they leave me stripped raw.
Always when I’m under stress. Always when I let myself care too much.
I pace the room, practicing the box breathing I have worked so hard to master. The trigger isn’t usually so clear cut, but it’s easy to pinpoint this time: Emery. The way she looked at me when I kissed her. The way her eyes hardened in defiance when we fought.
The taste of her still lingers—soft, sweet, and desperate. The way her body fit against the wall beneath me. I want her with a hunger I haven’t felt in years. I know she feels it too, this pull between us. She’s hard for me to resist, which is why my restraint has evaporated twice now.
I’m taking it to the council, she had said. And she will too. She’s tenacious and unrelenting.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Once again, I stormed out like an ass. All I’m trying to do is protect her, and she won’t let me.
She’s brilliant, stubborn, and walking straight into danger.
I don’t have proof Penny was in trouble either, but she’s gone.
And between what Emery found in the marsh and the way Penny’s death was written off so quickly, every instinct I have is screaming at me now.
I don’t know how to make her see that this is a bad idea.
Instinct has kept me alive more times than I can count. It’s also failed me once.
Once, I hesitated. Questioned myself. Talked myself into believing I was seeing ghosts instead of danger. My CO paid for that pause with his life.
After that, I stopped trusting my gut completely—started chalking every red flag up to PTSD, to shadows where there weren’t any. It’s why I didn’t push harder with Penny. Why I told myself she was safe, the old boys were just giving her a hard time. I was projecting.
And now Emery’s standing in the same place—unwilling to be afraid—and the thought of being wrong again makes my chest feel too tight to breathe.
This is why I’ve not been able to sustain a relationship since my return. I am always on high alert. It’s become my nature. But it’s hard for me to explain why to the women I date, and I end up pushing them away. I don’t want to push Emery away.
I drop into the chair by the window and stare at the shadowed marsh. I can still see her flushed cheeks, the fire in her eyes. I want her. God help me, I want her. But wanting her and protecting her don’t line up, and I don’t know what to do.
I fiddle with my phone and debate calling Tate. I know he has suspicions too. Maybe he’ll have some insight. Ultimately, I decide against it. If I know Tate, he’ll guess something’s up before I can say a word.
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, breaths coming heavy.
I could walk away, let her fight her fight, pretend I don’t care.
But I already know I won’t. I couldn’t stop caring now if I wanted to.
And the thought of her standing in that chamber alone, with no one watching her back makes my chest clench.
I close my eyes, my jaw tight. I don’t know if I’ll stand beside her up there. But I do know I won’t let her fight alone.
BY THE TIME I make it down to the marina, I know I look like hell. Coffee and a cold shower did nothing to hide the circles under my eyes. My boots drag a little on the weathered planks, gulls wheeling overhead and squawking ominously.
Tate’s in the booth, the day’s log open in front of him, flipping through columns of neat handwriting. He glances up, then does a double take and squints. “Jesus, Morgan, you look like shit.”
“Didn’t sleep,” I mutter.
“Yeah, no kidding. You want to tell me what’s got you wound so tight?”
I hesitate, leaning against the doorframe. “Emery found one of her turtles yesterday, the tag ripped clean off.”
Tate’s eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a low whistle. “Shit. That’s not good.”
I push my lips together, shaking my head. “Nope. And what’s worse, she wants to take it to the council. Tell them someone’s messing with our wildlife.”
That gets his full attention. Tate sets down his pen and fixes me with a look. “That’s a terrible idea. You’ve got to stop her. You know how they are—she won’t make it five minutes before they shut her down. Or worse.”
My jaw tics, but before I can answer a deep-throated engine rumbles across the water.
I glance toward the channel just as a familiar Hatteras Yacht noses toward the dock.
Dale Langford stands at the bow, cocky grin on his stupid face, tossing a lazy wave, while his father, Warren, guides the wheel with the calm precision of a man who thinks he owns the whole damn town.
“Fuck,” I growl.
“Let me handle this,” Tate says, pressing the logbook to my chest. He slips past me, plastering on his easy smile as the boat edges into a visitor slip.
“Morning, boys,” Dale drawls as he hops onto the dock, line in hand. He ties off with practiced ease, then turns with a smirk, his eyes finding me immediately like a hound scenting blood. “Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?”
Tate straightens, smile thinning. “Something we can help you with, Dale?”
“Just checking in,” he says, too casually. His gaze flicks to me, sharp and curious, sniffing at the edges of something he can’t quite see but knows is there. “Always good to know who’s coming and going.”
That’s what they always say. Like it’s friendly. Like it isn’t a warning.
It’s then that I realize I’m still holding the damn logbook. My grip tightens before I toss it back into the booth and step out, squaring my shoulders.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Warren Langford steps down from the yacht, moving to stand beside his son. He wears the kind of polite smile that never touches his eyes.
“Mr. Langford.” Tate nods. “What can I do for you?”
“We just wanted to introduce ourselves to the new director.” Dale nods in the direction of the research center.
Tate glances at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking—how do they even know she’s arrived?
My teeth clench. I keep my expression flat, my body tight as a wire.
Same old story just with a new face. They never cared about the science—only who occupied the land it sat on.
If Dale suspects that Emery is poking around, if he even sniffs it, we’re in deeper than I thought.
“Too bad,” I say, my voice edged with warning. “She’s not in today. Sick with the flu or something.”
Dale lets out a chuckle, low and mocking, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Awe, ain’t that a shame?” He looks at Warren. “Maybe we ought to pay her a visit at the ‘ol Blackbird Cottage.”
My fists ball at my sides, my pulse spiking. I’ve seen what happens when they decide to insert themselves. It never stays polite for long.
“We’re busy, gentlemen,” Tate cuts in smoothly, crossing his arms. “So why don’t you tell us what you came for, and we’ll all move on with our day.”
“That was all,” Dale says innocently. “We just wanted to give Dr. Caldwell a warm Tidehaven welcome.”
“You’re four weeks late,” I snarl.
Dale laughs, shaking his head. “You’re always so uptight, Morgan. Dad, let’s get a bite to eat, shall we?” He pats me on the shoulder as he passes, smug and deliberate, and it takes everything in me not to put my fist in his face.
“Good day, boys.” Warren tips his hat as he passes, as if we’re all neighbors and not players on opposite sides of a game they pretend doesn’t exist. Father and son stroll off down the dock, their shadows long in the morning sun.
Tate exhales, slow and heavy. “That guy’s always sniffing around. I don’t like it.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low. “Me either.”
“I’ll catch you in a bit,” Tate says, starting for the bait shop.
“Later,” I mutter.
I duck back in the booth, pulling out my phone and thumb out a text to Emery.
Me: Don’t come down here today. You’re sick.
Her reply is almost instant.
Emery: What?
Me: Just trust me. For once.
I drop my phone on the counter and suck in a breath, chest tight, heart hammering like I’m still under fire. A buzz breaks the silence.
Emery: I trust you.
The words loosen something in my chest, but the weight settles right back in. All I can think about is how badly I want to keep her safe and how easily I could fail.