Chapter Twenty-Two
Chesapeake had been awake since four in the morning, pulling crab pots in the dark.
The traps he'd set off Sparrows Point three days ago had been heavy—a good sign, the kind of catch that would've made his father grin and say the bay was finally being generous.
He'd worked alone in the pre-dawn quiet, hauling the pots by hand the way he'd done as a kid, filling coolers with blue crabs that would be on the compound tables by sunset.
His woman deserved the best catch he could pull. Nothing less would do for today.
The compound courtyard had transformed by the time he got back.
String lights hung from the roofline, crisscrossing above the crab tables that Stevedore had set up in neat rows.
Natty Boh cases were stacked against the wall like ammunition, and the smell of Old Bay already hung in the air even though the crabs weren't cooking yet.
Brothers moved through the space with purpose—hanging banners, setting out chairs, doing the work of men who understood that some moments mattered more than others.
This was one of those moments.
"You look like hell," Dredge observed, appearing at his shoulder with a cup of coffee.
"Been up since four."
"Pulling traps?"
Chesapeake nodded toward the coolers lined up by the crab steamer. "Couldn't let someone else's catch be what we serve today."
Dredge studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Your dad would be proud."
The words hit somewhere deep. Chesapeake took the coffee and drank it to cover the tightness in his throat.
"He'd be telling me I was crazy," he said when he could speak again. "Claiming a woman I've known less than a month. Moving too fast. Not thinking straight."
"Would he be wrong?"
Chesapeake thought about Tess—the way she handled a boat, the way she'd stood her ground against men who wanted to break her, the way she fit against him in the dark like she'd always been there.
"No," he said. "He'd be exactly right. And he'd be happy about it anyway."
The afternoon passed in a blur of preparation and anticipation. Brothers arrived in a steady stream—some from the compound, others from jobs and errands around the city. The old ladies appeared with side dishes and decorations, turning the courtyard into something that looked almost festive.
Rosa caught his eye as she set out a tray of corn on the cob.
"She's getting ready upstairs," she said. "Megan and Nina are with her."
"Is she nervous?"
"She's a woman who ran a boat into the middle of a firefight." Rosa's mouth curved. "I don't think she gets nervous."
But Chesapeake was nervous. He'd faced down armed men without his pulse rising, had killed without hesitation when his people were threatened—but standing in this courtyard, waiting for the woman he loved to appear, his hands wouldn't stop trembling.
This was different. This was permanent. This was choosing to anchor himself to another person in front of everyone who mattered.
He'd never done that before. Never wanted to.
Until her.
The sun was starting its descent when Verdict appeared at his side, cutting through the pre-party chaos with his usual quiet authority.
"You ready?"
"No." Chesapeake managed a rough laugh. "But I'm doing it anyway."
"That's usually how the important things work." Verdict clapped him on the shoulder. "Your father would be proud of the man you've become. The brother you've been. And the life you're building."
"You knew him?"
"Met him once, years ago. Before the inspectors." Verdict's eyes were distant for a moment. "He talked about you like you hung the moon. Said his boy was going to be something special someday."
Chesapeake's throat closed up entirely.
"Time to take your place," Verdict said gently. "She's coming down."
The courtyard fell quiet as Chesapeake walked to the center, the brotherhood forming a loose circle around him.
These were his family—the men who'd bled beside him, fought beside him, trusted him with their lives and their territory.
Dredge. Cull. Beltway. Stevedore. Formstone.
Every brother who wore the Killers' patch, gathered to witness something that mattered.
Then Tess appeared at the top of the courtyard steps, and everything else disappeared.
She wore a simple dress—dark blue, the color of deep water—that showed off the tan she'd built over a lifetime on the bay. Her hair was down, salt-wild and beautiful, and she moved toward him with the same confidence she showed at the helm of her boat.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just the steady purpose of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
She stopped in front of him, and he forgot how to breathe.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi yourself."
Verdict stepped forward, and the ceremony began.
It was simple—the Killers weren't much for elaborate ritual. Verdict spoke about brotherhood, about loyalty, about the meaning of claiming someone as your own. He spoke about Tess's courage, her backbone, the way she'd proven herself worthy of standing beside a brother.
Then he turned to Chesapeake.
"Do you claim this woman as yours? Before your brothers, before your club, before whatever god or water you answer to?"
"I do." The words came out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "She's mine. Has been since the moment she told me she didn't need protection."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Tess's mouth curved.
"And do you accept this claim?" Verdict asked her. "Do you stand with this brother, with this club, with everything that means?"
Tess met Chesapeake's eyes, and the certainty there made his chest ache.
"I do. He's mine. Has been since the moment I saw him read the tide like he was born to it."
More laughter. Chesapeake felt himself grinning despite the solemnity of the moment.
Verdict produced a leather cuff—the mark of an old lady, tooled with the Killers' symbol—and handed it to Chesapeake. He took Tess's wrist and fastened it in place, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the clasp.
"Before these witnesses," Verdict intoned, "I recognize this claiming. She is your old lady. You are her man. May the bay keep you both."
The courtyard erupted.
Brothers surged forward with congratulations and crude jokes. The old ladies surrounded Tess with hugs and welcomes. Music started up from somewhere, and suddenly the solemn ceremony transformed into the party it had always been building toward.
Chesapeake found himself passed from brother to brother, accepting handshakes and backslaps and comments about finally getting his head out of his ass.
But his eyes kept finding Tess in the crowd—laughing with Rosa, accepting a beer from Megan, looking more at home in this chaos than he'd ever seen her.
His old lady.
The phrase settled into him like an anchor finding bottom.
The crabs were perfect. He watched Tess crack shells at the table, her hands quick and sure, keeping up with brothers who'd been doing this their whole lives. She caught him watching and grinned, holding up a particularly fat piece of backfin before popping it in her mouth.
"Show-off," he mouthed.
"Waterman," she mouthed back.
The party wound down slowly, brothers drifting off in pairs and groups as the string lights came on and the harbor went dark.
By midnight, only the diehards remained—Dredge and Megan slow-dancing to nothing, Verdict nursing a final beer at the edge of the courtyard, a few prospects cleaning up the crab shells.
Chesapeake found Tess at the dock, watching the harbor the way she always did.
"Ready to get out of here?" he asked.
"Your room has a harbor view."
"It does."
"Then I'm ready."
They made their way upstairs, leaving the last of the party behind. His room was simple—bed, dresser, the window that looked out over the water—but when he opened the window and let the harbor sounds drift in, Tess smiled like he'd given her a gift.
"Can't sleep without water," she said.
"I know."
She turned to face him, and the look in her eyes made his blood heat.
"We're official now," she said. "I'm your old lady."
"You're my everything." He crossed the room to her, pulling her against him. "Have been since that dock in Essex. Maybe before. Maybe since the first time I saw you at a fuel stop and didn't know why I couldn't look away."
"Tyler." She said his name like a caress, and the sound of it on her lips undid him.
He kissed her—not gentle, not tentative. This was claiming, pure and simple. His hands in her hair, her body pressed against his, nothing between them but the need to be closer.
She matched him stroke for stroke. Her fingers worked at his shirt, his belt, stripping away barriers with an urgency that said she needed this as much as he did. He unzipped her dress and let it pool at her feet, then lifted her and carried her to the bed.
"Mine," he breathed against her throat.
"Yours." She arched into him, pulling him closer. "Always yours."
This was different from the times before. Not the tender discovery of their first night, not the desperate adrenaline of post-combat need, not even the deliberate choosing of the boat.
This was celebration.
They moved together like a dance they'd been rehearsing their whole lives, two bodies that had learned each other's rhythms and were finally free to enjoy them without fear.
The harbor sounds drifted through the open window—water against pilings, distant boat engines, the eternal breath of the bay—and it felt like the water itself was blessing them.
She cried out his name when she broke, and the sound was so beautiful he followed her over the edge without meaning to. They collapsed together, tangled and sweating and complete, and he held her as their breathing slowed.
"I love you," she whispered against his chest.
"I love you too." He pressed his lips to her hair. "More than I knew I could love anything."
"Even the bay?"
He thought about it—about the water that had shaped him, the bay that had given him everything and taken so much in return.
"The bay gave me you," he said finally. "So loving you is loving it. Same water, same salt, same everything."
She laughed softly and burrowed closer, her arm draped across his chest.
The harbor sounds continued through the window—the gentle music of water and night that had lulled him to sleep his entire life. But it was different now. Fuller. More complete.
Because he wasn't listening alone anymore.
Chesapeake held her as her breathing deepened into sleep, watching the play of harbor lights on the ceiling. He thought about his father—about the boat they'd lost, the legacy that had been stolen, the grief that had shaped him into the man he'd become.
His father had loved the bay more than anything except family. Had taught him that the water gave back what you put into it, that the Chesapeake was home to anyone who treated it right.
The bay had taken his father's boat. His father's livelihood. His father's life, in the end.
But it had given him this.
A woman who understood the water the way he did. A partner who could read the weather in his eyes and the tide in his silences. Someone who belonged on the bay as completely as he did.
Someone worth anchoring for.
Chesapeake tightened his arms around her and let himself drift, the woman he loved warm against him, the harbor singing its eternal song outside the window.
The waterman who'd lost his father's boat had finally found something worth staying ashore for.
And she was his.