Chapter Ten
Saturday at the compound moved to a different rhythm.
Tess woke to the sound of music drifting up from the courtyard—classic rock, something with guitars that made her think of summer barbecues and cold beer.
Through her window, she could see brothers gathered in the garage bay, working on bikes with the easy camaraderie of men who had nowhere else to be.
No one was scanning the perimeter. No one was checking weapons or running patrol routes.
For the first time since she'd arrived, the compound felt less like a fortress and more like a home.
She found Chesapeake on the dock, checking the boats she'd fixed two days ago. He looked up when her boots hit the planks, and something in his expression shifted—warmed—before he could hide it.
"Morning."
"Morning." She stopped beside him, close enough to smell salt and leather. "They running okay?"
"Better than okay." He ran a hand along the bay runner's gunwale. "Stevedore said the starter hasn't sounded this good since he bought it."
"It just needed cleaning. The brushes were caked with carbon."
"Mmm." He studied her for a moment, that patient intensity she was starting to crave. "Feel like taking her out?"
Tess's heart kicked.
"On the harbor?"
"Unless you'd rather stay on land."
The smile broke across her face before she could stop it. "Try and stop me."
They took the bay runner out with Formstone and a prospect named Pike, cutting through the harbor toward the open water beyond the port. The morning was clear and cool, the kind of spring day that made the Chesapeake sparkle like scattered diamonds.
Chesapeake let her take the wheel.
Tess wrapped her hands around the throttle and felt something loosen in her chest—some knot of tension she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying. The deck rocked beneath her feet. The spray kissed her face. The engine hummed with the steady rhythm of a boat that had been properly maintained.
This was where she belonged. On the water. Behind the wheel. Moving.
She opened up the throttle and let the bay runner fly.
"Jesus Christ," Formstone grabbed the rail, his face going slightly green. "Does she always drive like this?"
"Only when there's open water." Chesapeake's voice came from behind her, close enough that she felt his breath on her neck. "Let her run."
Tess pushed the boat faster, weaving between channel markers with the confidence of a woman who'd been doing this since before she could drive a car. Formstone made a sound that might have been a prayer. Pike gripped the rail with white knuckles and tried to look like he wasn't terrified.
Chesapeake laughed.
The sound hit Tess like a rogue wave—unexpected, overwhelming, impossible to brace against. She'd heard him talk. Heard him threaten. Heard that low, rough voice give orders that men obeyed without question.
She'd never heard him laugh.
It was easy. Full. A sound that came from somewhere deep and real, transforming his weathered face into something younger, lighter. The lines around his eyes crinkled. His mouth curved in a way that made her want to taste it.
God, she was in trouble.
"What's so funny?" she asked, not slowing down.
"Formstone gets seasick in a bathtub." Chesapeake moved closer, bracing himself against the console beside her. "He's been turning green since we cleared the dock."
"I am not seasick," Formstone protested weakly. "I'm just... adjusting."
"You're about to adjust your breakfast over the side."
Tess eased off the throttle, letting the boat settle into a gentler cruise. Formstone's color improved slightly. Pike let out a breath he'd probably been holding since they left the harbor.
"Appreciate it," Formstone muttered.
"Don't thank me. Thank your stomach." Tess glanced at Chesapeake, found him still smiling, and felt heat crawl up her neck. "Where to?"
"Anywhere." He leaned against the rail, his eyes on the water, and for a moment he looked completely at peace. "Just... anywhere on the water."
They cruised the harbor for an hour, weaving past container ships and tugboats and the endless parade of pleasure craft that filled the bay on a Saturday morning.
Chesapeake pointed out landmarks she didn't know—hidden coves, old smuggling routes, places where the club had conducted business over the years.
He didn't share details. She didn't ask for them.
But watching him on the water—relaxed, easy, that laugh still echoing in her memory—she understood something she hadn't before.
This man wasn't just dangerous. He wasn't just protective.
He was a person who'd built his life around the same things she had, and losing access to it was killing him as slowly as it was killing her.
They had that in common. Maybe they had more.
Back at the compound, the courtyard had transformed.
Stevedore had fired up the crab tables—long wooden surfaces covered in brown paper, mallets and picks laid out at each station, the smell of Old Bay and steamed shellfish thick in the air.
Brothers gathered around with Natty Boh bottles sweating in the afternoon heat, cracking shells and swapping stories.
Tess grabbed a spot at the table and picked up a mallet.
"You know what you're doing with that?" Stevedore asked, amusement in his voice.
"Try me."
He dropped a pile of crabs in front of her—big, blue, still steaming from the pot—and Tess went to work.
Crack the claws. Split the body. Clean out the gills and guts.
Extract the meat in long, perfect strips without crushing it.
Her hands moved with the muscle memory of a thousand crab feasts, from childhood cookouts on the Essex shore to late nights on her father's boat when the catch was good and the bourbon hadn't kicked in yet.
She finished her pile before any of the brothers had cleared half of theirs.
"Holy shit." Stevedore stared at the neat stack of crab meat on her paper. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Essex." She reached for another crab. "We don't mess around with seafood."
Laughter rippled around the table. Formstone—recovered from his seasickness—pushed his pile toward her with a grin. "Do mine too?"
"Do your own." But she was smiling as she said it.
The afternoon slid by in a haze of crab shells and cold beer and conversation that asked nothing of her except her presence.
The old ladies drifted past at various points—Rosa dropping off more crabs, Megan stealing a clump of backfin from Dredge's plate, Nina appearing briefly with a knowing smile before disappearing back into the clubhouse.
They nodded at Tess as they passed. Small acknowledgments, but meaningful.
She was being accepted. Not because of Chesapeake, but because of herself. Because she'd fixed their boats and cracked their crabs and stood her ground when easier women would've folded.
It felt good. Better than she wanted to admit.
As the sun started to sink toward the harbor, Tess stepped back from the table and stretched muscles that had gone stiff from sitting too long. She wandered toward the courtyard's edge, finding a quiet spot near the fire pit where she could watch the chaos without being in the middle of it.
Chesapeake was still at the table, talking to Dredge about something that had both of them frowning at Beltway's phone. Club business, probably. The serious kind that didn't get discussed around outsiders.
She wasn't an outsider anymore, though. Not quite.
As if he felt her watching, Chesapeake looked up.
Their eyes met across the courtyard, and everything else faded—the laughter, the music, the smell of crabs and beer and an afternoon spent pretending the world outside the compound walls didn't exist.
He looked at her like she was the only thing in the courtyard worth seeing.
Not with desire, though that was there too, burning low beneath the surface. This was something different. Something deeper.
He looked at her like she was home.
Like someone who'd spent too long on land had finally spotted the water again, and nothing—not the club, not the war, not the distance between them—could make him look away.
Tess held his gaze and felt her heart turn over in her chest.
She was in so much trouble.