Chapter 4
The rumble of motorcycles woke Paige at seven-fifteen.
She'd been awake anyway—hadn't really slept, if she was honest—but the sound of engines rolling up her gravel drive was different from her usual morning alarm. Deeper. More deliberate. The kind of sound that announced itself before it arrived.
By the time she reached the front porch, three Harleys were lined up facing the creek, chrome catching the morning sun like weapons on display.
Channel climbed off the first bike, and something in Paige's chest did a complicated twist at the sight of him—leather cut over a black t-shirt, every trace of the tourist costume gone.
This was who he really was. Dangerous and focused and watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
The two men with him were cut from the same cloth.
The one dismounting the second bike had a weathered face and steady blue eyes that assessed her in a single sweep—Paige recognized command presence when she saw it.
The third was leaner, sharp green eyes already scanning the property like he was mapping escape routes in his head.
"Paige." Channel's voice carried across the morning air. "This is Anchor, our president. And Compass, road captain."
Anchor moved toward her porch with the easy authority of a man who expected the world to make way. Paige stood her ground, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Ms. Kincaid." He stopped at the bottom of her steps, giving her the space to stay above him. Respectful. Calculated. "Channel tells me you've got a smuggler problem."
"I've got a problem," she agreed. "Whether your club can solve it remains to be seen."
Something flickered in Anchor's expression—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of respect. Behind him, Compass made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"She's got teeth," Compass observed. "Good."
"She's standing right here," Paige said flatly. "And she doesn't appreciate being discussed in third person."
Channel's lips twitched. He climbed her porch steps and positioned himself at her side—not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers.
Territorial. She recognized the behavior from a decade of watching men stake claims. The realization sent something hot and complicated spiraling through her gut.
"Let's take this inside," she said, turning before any of them could see the flush climbing her neck. "I've got coffee, and I've got information. We can trade."
She gave them everything.
Sitting at her kitchen table, three dangerous men listening with the focus of predators, Paige laid out what she knew about Owen Trask's operation.
The timeline first—two weeks of escalating pressure.
Initial approach, polite but insistent. The burned dock when she said no.
The dead cat when she said no again. Thursday's visit, the deadline that was supposed to be tomorrow but had been moved up.
"They've got a crew of at least eighteen," she continued, watching Anchor take mental notes. "I've identified two distinct groups—boat crews who handle the water transport, and ground teams who move product once it's ashore. Different vehicles, different patterns."
Compass leaned forward. "How do you know the crew size?"
"Surveillance." She met his sharp gaze without wavering. "I've been watching them since they burned my dock. License plates, faces, schedules. They stage at a marina about twelve miles up the coast—I've got photos."
The brothers exchanged glances. Anchor's eyebrows rose a fraction. Compass looked almost impressed.
Channel just nodded, like he'd expected nothing less.
"The main operator—Trask—I haven't seen in person," Paige continued. "He sends his people to do the talking. But I've identified at least three lieutenants. The primary enforcer is a big guy, broken nose, moves like ex-military. He's the one who burned my dock."
"Burch," Channel said quietly. "Nolan Burch. Former merchant marine."
"You know him?"
"Know of him. He's got a reputation for escalating." Channel's jaw tightened. "He likes the violent parts of the job."
"Wonderful." Paige pulled out her phone, scrolling to the photos she'd taken over the past two weeks. "Here's what I've got. Boat schedules, vehicle plates, faces. It's not complete, but it's a start."
She slid the phone across the table, and Anchor picked it up, scrolling through with an expression that had shifted from surprise to something that looked almost like hunger.
"You got all this in two weeks?" he asked.
"I got all this while running an inn, hosting guests, and trying not to get killed." Paige crossed her arms. "I'm motivated."
Anchor set down the phone and looked at her—really looked, the way Channel had last night. Reading her. Measuring her.
"MP?" he asked.
"Ten years. Iraq and Afghanistan."
"That explains it." He nodded slowly, something settling in his expression. "Channel's right. This is a territorial threat. Trask sets up shop on the Northern Neck, he's going to use it as a launching point for everything else. Can't let that happen."
"So what's the plan?" Paige demanded.
"We take point on Trask. Shut him down before he gets established." Anchor glanced at Channel. "You're running this. Your territory, your op."
"Already planned on it." Channel's voice was easy, but there was an edge underneath—something personal that made Paige's instincts flare. "I'll need a few days to map their patterns, identify weak points. Then we move."
"And what am I supposed to do while you're mapping patterns?" Paige cut in. "Sit here and wait for Trask's deadline to pass? Hope they don't burn down my inn with me in it?"
"You're staying close," Channel said, and the way he said it—flat, final, like it wasn't up for discussion—made her hackles rise and her pulse jump at the same time. "I'm going to fortify this place, set up surveillance, make it clear you're not unprotected anymore."
"I can protect myself."
"I know you can." He turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his expression stole her breath. "But you shouldn't have to. Not alone."
The kitchen went quiet. Anchor and Compass watched the exchange with expressions that suggested they were seeing something significant. Paige held Channel's gaze, refusing to be the first one to look away.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I'm not sitting on the sidelines. If you're running an op on my property, I'm part of it."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." Channel's lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "You've got better intel than half my brothers."
"Damn right I do."
Anchor stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "We'll be in touch. Compass will coordinate with Channel on route security. In the meantime—" He looked at Paige with something approaching warmth. "You've got Salt Blood backing you now. Trask's going to learn what that means."
She walked them to the door, watching as Anchor and Compass climbed onto their bikes. They nodded to her—respect, acknowledgment—before firing up their engines and roaring down the drive.
Channel didn't follow.
He stood on her porch, leather creaking as he leaned against the railing, watching his brothers disappear around the bend. Paige crossed her arms and waited, acutely aware that they were alone again. That the air between them felt charged, like the moment before a summer storm.
"Coffee?" she asked, because she needed something to do with her hands.
"Yeah. Coffee sounds good."
They sat on the porch with mismatched mugs, the morning warming around them, the creek glinting silver through the trees. Paige watched a heron pick its way along the shoreline and tried to pretend she wasn't hyperaware of the man sitting two feet away.
"You knew," she said finally. "Last night, when you were watching me with Trask's men. You already knew what I was."
"I suspected." Channel took a sip of coffee, his profile sharp against the soft morning light. "The way you move, the way you held yourself. I've seen enough soldiers to recognize one."
"And you didn't say anything."
"Wasn't my place. Besides—" He turned to look at her, that easy smile sliding into place. "I wanted to see how you handled it. Whether you'd fold."
"I don't fold."
"No." The smile softened into something realer. "You don't."
Paige studied him—the sun-bleached hair, the scars on his hands, the way his eyes never quite stopped calculating even when the rest of him was relaxed.
He'd dropped the tourist act completely, but she could still see the ghost of it underneath.
The charm that covered the sharp edges. The easy manner that deflected attention from the dangerous mind.
"I saw through you the minute you walked in," she said. "The tourist clothes. The innocent questions. You were casing my parlor like you were planning to rob it."
"Tactical habit. I notice exits."
"So do I." She set down her mug, turning to face him fully. "Which is how I knew you weren't what you were pretending to be. The question is—what are you really?"
Channel was quiet for a moment, and she watched something shift in his expression. The charm falling away. The calculation giving way to something rawer, realer.
"I used to run smuggling operations through these waterways," he said. "Cigarettes, liquor. Used fishing charters as cover. I knew every hidden creek, every route that didn't show up on maps."
"Used to?"
"A deal went wrong. My partner trusted my planning, and he ended up dead." The words came out flat, emotionless, but Paige could hear the weight underneath. "Got out after that. Found the club. Now I use what I know to protect territory instead of exploit it."
She absorbed that—the confession, the vulnerability, the trust it implied. This man had spent their entire acquaintance hiding behind a mask of charm, and now he was showing her what was underneath.
"I buried the soldier four years ago," she said quietly. "When I bought this place. I wanted to be someone who didn't need to watch exits or read threats. Someone who could just... be."
"How's that working out?"
"It was working fine until smugglers showed up." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Turns out you can't bury training. You can only ignore it until something forces it back to the surface."
Channel reached out, his fingers brushing against hers on the porch railing. The touch was light—barely there—but it sent electricity crackling up her arm.
"You're not fooling anyone who matters," he said softly. "The innkeeper act. The flowered aprons and welcome baskets. Underneath all that, you're the same woman who stared down Trask's men and didn't flinch."
Paige turned her hand over, letting her fingers tangle with his. Dangerous. This was dangerous and stupid and she didn't care.
"Neither are you," she said. "The charm. The easy smile. I see what's underneath, and it's sharper than you want anyone to know."
Channel's eyes darkened, something hungry flickering in their depths. His thumb traced a slow circle against her palm, and Paige felt the touch everywhere—a spark that threatened to become a wildfire.
"Two people who read situations for a living," he murmured. "Finally meeting someone who reads back."
"Is that what this is?"
"I don't know what this is." His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. "But I know I'm not going anywhere until we figure it out."
Paige should have pulled away. Should have reminded him that she didn't need protection, didn't need complications, didn't need a dangerous biker with a charming smile making her feel things she'd sworn off years ago.
Instead, she tightened her grip on his hand and let herself fall.