Chapter Five #3
His control broke. His hands locked on my hips, thrusting up into me, the rhythm rough and uneven.
I matched him, rolling to meet each stroke.
The dock groaned. The water lapped. His jaw clenched, his eyes found mine, and I watched the exact moment he surrendered: a breath that tore out of him, his body pulling taut beneath me, his cock pulsing inside me while he said my name once, low, the only word he had left.
I collapsed against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, tight, his face in my hair.
Our breathing loud in the dark. The dock planks were still warm beneath us, holding the day’s heat, and somewhere out on the Intracoastal a shrimp boat engine hummed low and distant.
The stars were enormous above us. I’d never noticed how many you could see from this dock.
“The cleat,” he said after a while.
“What about it?”
“You’ve got a bruise.”
I looked down at my shin. Red mark, already darkening. “Worth it.”
His laugh vibrated through me. He kissed the top of my head and held me, and I let myself be held, and the night was close and salt-thick and I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
HE FELL ASLEEP BEFORE I did.
We’d gone inside eventually, tangled into his bed with the window open and the marsh breathing outside.
He was on his back, one arm stretched toward my side.
His face in sleep was open in a way it never was awake.
The lines between his brows smoothed out.
His mouth relaxed. He looked younger, softer, and like someone who’d stopped bracing for bad news.
I watched him breathe and the thought arrived the way the tide came in: not a wave but a shift, slow and whole, in the direction of everything.
I’m—
I didn’t finish it. But it sat there, enormous and certain, pressing at the inside of my ribs with a force that felt permanent.
I pressed closer. His arm came around me, reflexive, even in sleep.
I closed my eyes.
THE BOATHOUSE SMELLED of diesel and neoprene and the focused energy of people working a problem. Cal had the tactical overlay across The Bridge’s conference table. Rhea was on two phones. Beau stood at the window with his arms folded, watching the water.
Deputy Ty Cousins showed up at eleven with paperwork and a grin.
I’d met him once, briefly. Stocky, easy smile, an energy that filled a room without trying. He shook my hand, called me ma’am, and started walking Cal through the federal liaison process with the cheerful competence of someone who loved procedural detail.
“Should be clean,” Ty said, flipping through a folder. “Feds take jurisdiction on the heritage zone, Beau’s original shutdown contract gets folded into the new protection order, and Dr. Heyward gets her research designation.”
He said it casually. A document that had been superseded. Background noise.
Beau’s original shutdown contract.
The words landed on a bruise I’d buried. Not forgotten. Buried. Pushed under enough new skin that I’d stopped feeling it until someone pressed exactly the wrong spot.
My stomach dropped. The fluorescent lights in The Bridge went flat and distant.
For half a second I was standing in the lobby of a conference center in Houston, reading a program booklet, not finding my name anywhere near the presentation I’d built from scratch.
The same hollow ring. The same locked-jaw stillness while my body figured out the damage before my brain caught up.
He’d come to shut me down. That was the beginning. Not protection. Not partnership. A contract to end my work, carried by a man with a manila envelope who’d read my file and walked down my dock to deliver it.
Everything since had been real. I knew that. The dives, the research, the nights in his bed, the shrimp on the dock, his voice soft when he called me Doc now. He’d proved himself a hundred times over.
But the pattern was older than Beau. Older than Tidehaven. Old enough to have its own gravity, its own voice, and the voice said: people you trust always have a reason, and the reason is never you.
I went quiet. Beau noticed immediately. His gaze caught mine across The Bridge and I saw the question, the concern, the beginning of a step toward me.
“I’m fine,” I said. Smiled. The smile didn’t fit anymore. “Just thinking about the documentation timeline.”
He didn’t believe me. I could see that too.
“After the filing’s complete,” I said to Cal, “I’ll coordinate with the university consortium on the excavation proposal. That’s my next step.”
Professional. Steady. A woman with a plan and no time for whatever was cracking open behind her sternum.
I spent the rest of the meeting not meeting Beau’s eyes. His attention stayed on me anyway. Steady. Present. Patient with me the same as he was patient with the tide and the current.
That patience was the worst part. It made the armor feel like cruelty.
I SAT ON THE DOCK THAT evening with my feet over the creek and Reckoning visible in the middle distance, still at her slip in the marina. My boat. My exit. Thirty-two feet of independence I’d bought with every dollar I had because I’d needed to know I could always leave.
The marsh was going silver under the last light. Behind me, the boathouse glowed. Beau was inside. I could hear him putting away the plates from the sandwiches I’d made us for lunch, the ones I’d cut diagonally because he’d mentioned once, offhand, that his father used to cut his that way.
My charts on his walls. My ginger beer in his fridge. The grill I’d cleaned and covered because that’s what you did when a place was yours.
I pressed my fingers to the compass at my throat. The silver was warm from my skin.
Seven months ago I’d pulled into this marina running on fumes and stubbornness, and the only thing I’d trusted was my own research.
Now my research was vindicated. The wreck was real, the man inside that boathouse had stood between me and rifles without flinching — and I was sitting out here, armored up, because a deputy had said four words in the wrong order.
The old voice said run. It always said run. It had kept me safe and alone and right about everyone who’d ever let me down.
But tonight my hands still felt the way his body had trembled under mine.
I could still hear his voice saying I’ve got you, certain and low and meaning it.
And I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay in a way that terrified me more than the cartel, more than the contract — more than the morning I’d read a conference program in Houston and realized my name had been erased.
Staying meant trusting. Trusting meant someone could hurt me in the one place I’d stopped protecting.
The creek moved beneath my feet. A night heron called from the shallows, sharp and solitary, then went quiet.
I stayed on the dock. I didn’t go to Reckoning. I didn’t go inside.
Not yet.