Chapter Six
Tess woke to the smell of bait and creosote and the unfamiliar sensation of not being alone.
The fishing shack was smaller in daylight—one room with a cot, a propane stove, and windows so grimy they turned the morning sun to amber. Nets hung from the rafters. Crab pots rusted in the corner. The whole place smelled like decades of catches and the men who'd hauled them.
It smelled like home, in a way that made her chest ache.
She found Chesapeake on the dock, scanning the water with eyes that hadn't stopped moving since she'd met him. He stood with his weight balanced, loose and ready, like he expected the bay to throw something at him any second.
Maybe it would.
"Coffee's on the stove," he said without turning. "It's shit, but it's hot."
Tess poured herself a cup and joined him on the dock, wrapping her hands around the tin mug to chase away the morning chill. The coffee was, in fact, shit. She drank it anyway.
"Any sign of them?"
"Costa's boats have been working the shoreline since dawn." He pointed south, toward a stretch of marsh that looked identical to every other stretch of marsh within ten miles. "They're searching methodically. Started at the marina, working their way down."
"How long until they reach us?"
"Depends on how thorough they want to be." He finally looked at her, and the intensity in his gaze made her forget about the cold. "Could be hours. Could be nightfall. Could be they give up and go home."
"They won't give up."
"No." A grim smile touched his mouth. "They won't."
Tess leaned against the dock railing and watched a heron pick its way through the shallows. The bay was quiet this morning—that deceptive calm that could turn deadly in minutes if the weather shifted. She'd learned to read that calm when she was barely old enough to see over the gunwale.
"Tell me about Serrano," she said. "What am I actually dealing with here?"
Chesapeake was quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking something on the water she couldn't see.
"He runs guns," he said finally. "Stolen goods. People who need to disappear—not the kind who are running from trouble, the kind who are trouble. He moves product through the Chesapeake to buyers in Baltimore, DC, Philly. Uses the bay the way smugglers have used it for three hundred years."
"And the package I pulled from my propeller?"
"Guns, probably. Maybe something worse." He turned to face her fully, and the morning light caught the scars on his hands, turning them silver.
"You cost him sixty thousand dollars and his reputation with buyers who don't accept excuses.
That package was supposed to be in Baltimore two hours after you dropped it in the bay.
Instead, Serrano had to explain to some very dangerous people why their merchandise was at the bottom of the Chesapeake. "
Tess's stomach turned, but she kept her voice steady. "So he wants revenge."
"He wants you gone. Revenge is just how he plans to get there." Chesapeake stepped closer, and suddenly the dock felt very small. "You're not just a charter captain who saw something she shouldn't have, Tess. You're a problem. A loose end. And men like Serrano don't leave loose ends."
"I didn't see anything. I dropped the damn package without opening it."
"Doesn't matter. You know he's running product through these waters. You know his men threatened you. You know enough to cause problems if you ever decided to talk."
"I'm not a snitch."
"I know that." His voice softened, and something in his eyes shifted—that patient intensity giving way to something warmer, more personal. "But Serrano doesn't. He doesn't know you the way I—"
He stopped. Shook his head.
"The way you what?" Tess asked, and her voice came out quieter than she intended.
Chesapeake held her gaze for a long moment. The heron took flight from the shallows, wings beating against the morning air, and neither of them looked away.
"The way I'm starting to," he said.
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Tess felt her pulse kick, felt the heat rising in her cheeks despite the chill.
She turned away first, looking out at the water because looking at him was doing dangerous things to her concentration.
"The Chesapeake is my home," she said. "My family's been working these waters for three generations.
My grandfather ran charters before my father was born.
My father ran them until the bottle took him.
And I've been running them since I was sixteen years old, keeping his business alive even when he couldn't keep himself alive. "
She felt Chesapeake move closer, felt the heat of him at her back.
"It's not just a smuggling route to me," she continued. "It's everything. The only thing I have left. And some asshole with a marina and a crew of thugs thinks he can take that away because I wouldn't play along with his operation?"
"He thinks wrong."
Tess turned, and he was right there—close enough to touch, close enough that she could see the flecks of green in his gray eyes and the stubble along his jaw and the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
"You say that," she said. "But you don't know—"
"I know exactly." His voice was rough, raw in a way she hadn't heard before. "I know what it means to have the water be everything. To build your whole life around tides and weather and the feel of a deck under your feet. And I know what it's like to have someone take that away."
Something flickered across his face. Pain, old and deep, surfacing for just a moment before he pushed it back down.
"Your father's boat," Tess said quietly. "You mentioned it last night."
"Lost it to inspectors who'd been paid to find violations that didn't exist." His jaw tightened.
"Meanwhile, the companies that were actually polluting the bay paid fines that amounted to pocket change and kept right on poisoning the water.
My father worked these channels for forty years, and they destroyed him over paperwork while the real criminals got bonuses. "
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He met her eyes, and the warmth was back, burning beneath the surface. "It led me here. To the club. To men who actually do something about the bastards who think they can take whatever they want from people who work for a living."
"And to me?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Chesapeake's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Yeah," he said, his voice dropping low. "And to you."
The moment stretched, electric and charged, and Tess was suddenly very aware of how alone they were. One room. One dock. One boat. And a man who looked at her like she was the most important thing on this water.
A boat engine broke the silence.
Chesapeake's head snapped toward the sound, every trace of warmth vanishing as his body went rigid. He moved to the edge of the dock, scanning the water with those restless eyes.
"Costa?"
"Maybe." He pulled her back toward the shack, positioning himself between her and the water. The protective instinct was automatic, total—he didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. "Get inside. Stay away from the windows."
Tess ducked into the shack but didn't go far, watching through the grimy glass as Chesapeake tracked the boat's approach. The engine sound grew louder, then faded, then grew louder again. Circling. Searching.
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of tension and waiting. Costa's boats passed the point three times, close enough that Tess could hear voices carrying across the water, but the hidden dock and the overgrown vegetation kept them invisible.
Each time, Chesapeake stood at the window like a statue, tracking the boats with those patient predator's eyes until they moved on.
Each time, Tess found herself watching him instead of the water.
By nightfall, the traffic around the point had increased. More boats. More engines. Costa was tightening the net, and they both knew it.
"They're getting closer," Tess said, stating the obvious because the silence was starting to eat at her.
"They know we didn't make it to open water." Chesapeake checked his phone again—the tenth time in the past hour. "They're searching every cove and marsh point between here and the bay bridge."
"And when they find us?"
"They won't." His phone buzzed, and something in his expression shifted—relief, maybe, or anticipation. "Dredge is twenty minutes out. Coming by boat from the harbor."
"And then what?"
Chesapeake moved toward her, and in the dim light of the shack, his eyes looked darker, more intense.
"Then we get you somewhere safe. Somewhere Costa can't touch."
"I don't want somewhere safe. I want my boat back. I want my life back."
"I know." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "And you'll get it. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
Tess looked up at him—at the scars on his hands and the stubborn set of his jaw and the way he'd put himself between her and danger without hesitation, again and again, since the moment he stepped onto her dock.
"I don't trust anyone," she said.
"Neither do I." His mouth curved. "But I'm willing to make an exception."
The sound of an engine cut through the night—different from Costa's boats, deeper and steadier.
"That's Dredge." Chesapeake grabbed her hand, his fingers lacing through hers like they belonged there. "We just had to hold until I heard that engine. Now let's move."