Chapter Eight
The Fell's Point compound was the farthest from water Tess had been in months, and her body knew it.
She walked through the gate smelling like marsh grass and bay mud, dried blood on her shoes from a fight she hadn't been part of but couldn't stop seeing.
The bodies floating in the shallows. The calm efficiency of men who killed without hesitation.
The look in Chesapeake's eyes when he'd climbed onto that dock with blood on his hands.
She'd taken his hand anyway.
What did that say about her?
The clubhouse loomed ahead—three stories of Fell's Point brick, weathered by harbor salt and time. She spotted the ship timber bar through the windows, the Natty Boh neon casting everything in amber, the motorcycle memorabilia covering walls that had probably seen a hundred years of secrets.
At least there was water nearby. She could see the harbor through the far windows, boats moving slow against the morning light.
It wasn't the bay. But it was something.
"This way." Chesapeake's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the door. The touch was casual, possessive, like he'd been doing it his whole life. "I'll show you your room."
Your room. Not a room. Something in that distinction made her pulse kick.
Inside, the clubhouse smelled like leather and motor oil and decades of spilled beer soaked into wooden floors.
Brothers she didn't know nodded as she passed, their eyes curious but not hostile.
A few of them grinned at Chesapeake in a way that suggested they knew exactly why he was walking through the door with a woman who smelled like the marsh.
She kept her chin up and didn't look away.
The stairs creaked under her boots as Chesapeake led her to the second floor. The hallway was narrow, doors on both sides, and he stopped at the one at the end—the corner room.
"Harbor view," he said, pushing it open. "Best I could do on short notice."
Tess stepped inside and felt something in her chest loosen.
The room was small but clean—a bed, a dresser, a window that looked out over the water. She could see the harbor from here, could watch the boats come and go, could almost convince herself the gentle lap of water against the docks was the same sound she heard every night on her own boat.
Almost.
"The marina will be watched." Chesapeake stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. "Costa's dead, but Serrano still has men. It's not safe for you to go back yet."
"How long?"
"As long as it takes." His voice carried that flat certainty she was starting to recognize—the sound of a man who read situations the way he read weather, who knew what was coming before anyone else felt the wind shift. "You'll be safe here. The brothers will make sure of it."
Tess turned from the window and found him watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"And you?" she asked.
"I'll be around."
He said it like a promise. Like a threat. Like both at once.
Before she could respond, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Chesapeake stepped aside to let two women enter the room.
The first was petite with dark hair and sharp eyes—Latina, maybe in her early forties, carrying a plate of food that smelled like heaven after two days of stale coffee and marsh water.
The second was younger, late twenties, with tattoos climbing both arms and a look that said she'd seen enough of the world to stop being surprised by any of it.
"Rosa," Chesapeake said, nodding to the first woman. "Megan."
"We heard you brought someone in." Rosa set the plate on the dresser and turned to study Tess with eyes that missed nothing. "Thought you might be hungry."
Tess's stomach growled before she could answer. She hadn't eaten since... when? Yesterday morning? The day before?
"Thank you," she said, and meant it.
Chesapeake lingered in the doorway a moment longer, his gaze moving between Tess and the two women like he was making sure she'd be okay.
"I'll be downstairs," he said. "Church in an hour."
Then he was gone, his boots heavy on the stairs, and Tess was alone with the old ladies of the Charm City Killers.
Rosa didn't waste time on pleasantries. "You're the charter captain. The one Costa was after."
"Was." Tess sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the plate. Eggs, toast, bacon—simple food that tasted like a five-star meal after what she'd been through. "I'm guessing he's not after anyone anymore."
Megan's mouth curved. "Word travels fast."
"It's a small clubhouse."
The tattoo artist settled into the room's only chair, her posture easy, relaxed. But her eyes were sharp, watchful—the same careful assessment Tess had seen in her own mirror after years of reading clients and weather and currents.
"So you're the one who's got Chesapeake tied up in knots," Megan said.
Tess nearly choked on her eggs. "Excuse me?"
"That man's been running the bay for this club for years, and I've never seen him bring a woman to the compound." Rosa crossed her arms, but there was warmth beneath the scrutiny. "You must be something special."
"I'm a charter captain with a smuggler problem. That's all."
"Mm-hmm." Rosa didn't look convinced.
Tess focused on her food, suddenly very aware of being evaluated. These women weren't just curious—they were testing her. Reading her the way she read weather before deciding whether to launch.
She understood that. Respected it, even.
"You don't have to like me," she said, setting down her fork. "I'm not here to make friends. I'm here because a man with a marina and a crew of thugs decided my boat and my livelihood were acceptable losses. As soon as Serrano's dealt with, I'm going back to my water."
Silence.
Then Rosa laughed—a warm, genuine sound that transformed her sharp features.
"Oh, I like her," she said to Megan. "She's got spine."
"That's what it takes to survive these men." Megan leaned forward, her expression softening. "Look, we're not here to interrogate you. We're here because we've all been where you are—thrown into this world, trying to figure out the rules, wondering if we made the right choice by staying."
"I didn't choose to stay. I chose to survive."
"Same thing, in the end." Rosa moved to stand by the window, gazing out at the harbor. "These men will move heaven and earth for the women they claim. They'll kill without hesitation and die without regret. It's a lot to take in."
"I watched eight men die in a marsh last night." Tess heard the flatness in her own voice and didn't try to soften it. "I think I'm past the 'taking it in' stage."
The two women exchanged a look—something passed between them that Tess couldn't quite read.
"The compound takes some getting used to," Megan said finally. "There's food in the kitchen, always. The courtyard's good for fresh air when the walls start closing in. And if you need anything—clothes, toiletries, someone to talk to—you come find one of us."
"Why?" Tess asked. "You don't know me."
"Because Chesapeake brought you here." Rosa turned from the window, and her gaze was steady, certain. "That means you're under the club's protection. And we protect our own."
The words landed somewhere deep in Tess's chest, in a place she'd kept locked since her father died and left her alone on the water.
"I don't need protection," she said, but it came out softer than she intended.
"Maybe not." Rosa's mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "But you've got it anyway."
They left her alone after that, with promises to check in later and instructions on where to find coffee. Tess finished her food and sat on the bed, staring at the walls of a room that wasn't hers, in a world she'd never asked to enter.
The harbor gleamed through the window, boats moving in patterns she could read without thinking. Fishing vessels heading out for the day. Pleasure craft motoring toward the bay. A tugboat guiding a container ship through the channel.
It wasn't her water. Wasn't her boat. Wasn't the life she'd built from nothing after her father drank himself into the grave.
But it was water. And that had to count for something.
She moved to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, watching the harbor the way she'd watched the Chesapeake her entire life. Looking for signs. Reading the current. Trying to predict what was coming.
Somewhere out there, Marco Serrano was planning his next move.
His land muscle chief was dead, his crew was scattered, and a charter captain who should've been easy to break was sitting in the Killers' compound under the protection of a man who killed with the same patience he used to read the tide.
The war wasn't over. It was just getting started.
Tess stayed at the window until the sun climbed high over the harbor, watching boats that weren't hers move through water she didn't know. The bed behind her looked soft, inviting, but she knew she wouldn't sleep.
She never slept well on land.
A woman who grew up on the water needed the rock of the waves beneath her, the creak of the hull, the sound of the bay breathing in and out with the tide.
This room had none of that. Just solid ground and solid walls and the distant glimpse of a harbor that wasn't home.
Tess pressed her forehead against the glass and ached for the open water.