Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Heat scorched Vivian’s throat. She dropped hard to her knees, instinct taking over before thought could catch up.
The flare hissed from where it had ricocheted into the corner, a blinding spear of white fire spitting sparks across the floor.
A blast of hot air slammed past her face.
A scream tore out of her before she could swallow it.
The sharp tang of burning varnish and melting plastic thickened the air.
She grabbed a canvas jacket from the bench, coughing as she swung it down over the flames. Each strike sent a searing heat wave against her face. The fire clawed at the fabric, refusing to die.
“Come on, come on—”
She hit it again, and again, until the flare’s shriek dulled to a sputter. Smoke coiled up in slow, greasy tendrils. The last spark fizzled into darkness.
Her chest heaved. Ears rang. The jacket’s hem smoldered, a thin wisp of smoke rising between her shaking fingers. She tossed it aside, swiping the back of her sleeve across her mouth. Her heart hadn’t slowed. It pounded against her ribs, wild and uneven.
She blinked against the haze, eyes watering. A blackened hole marked the wall where the flare had struck, inches from where her head had been.
A near miss.
Her stomach turned. She would’ve been dead if she’d opened that compartment a second slower.
Footsteps thundered into the salon. “Viv!”
“I’m here!” she called out in a hoarse voice.
Vivian pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her legs still shaky, her skin prickling from the residual heat.
Blake burst through the door, crossed the space in two steps, and dropped to one knee beside her. The sharpness in his expression faltered when he saw her face. “Viv—talk to me. You hurt?”
His voice cracked on her name. He hid it quickly, but not quickly enough. The fear in his eyes wasn’t something she’d ever seen directed at her—and it rattled her more than the blast had.
She blinked, caught off guard. His hand hovered near her arm, close enough that she felt the warmth of him, steady and infuriatingly grounding.
For a heartbeat, she almost reached for him first. Almost. But he held himself still, gaze sweeping over her in a slow, searching pass—as if he needed proof she was still breathing.
Her heart tripped. “I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “It just startled me. Your jacket didn’t fare so well, though.”
His eyes stayed on hers for a beat—too intent, too knowing—before flicking to the scorched wall. “You sure?”
“Pretty sure you don’t want to wear your jacket again.” She tried to tease, but it came out rough, so she forced her voice steady. “Flare trap. Wired to the small compartment behind the bed. I triggered it.”
Blake’s jaw worked as he turned toward the damage, crouching low. The movement drew his shoulder close enough that she caught the faint scent of rain on his coat. His hand brushed the charred latch, careful, deliberate.
“Not amateur work,” he murmured, frown deepening. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were building.”
She swallowed hard, trying to focus on the scorch marks instead of the residual thrum beneath her skin. It shouldn’t matter that he’d looked at her that way—that, for one split second, she’d believed he cared about more than the mission.
But it did.
And that made her angry.
Vivian crossed her arms, retreating a half step, needing space from both the smoke and whatever emotion had just clawed its way to the surface. “Well, whoever built it almost had me.”
He looked up at her then, eyes dark and steady. “Almost doesn’t count, Viv.”
She exhaled through her nose, hard. “Tell that to the burn on my hand.”
He took her wrist gently. The tenderness stole her breath—not the pain. His touch unraveled something small and stubborn inside her, a thread she didn’t dare follow. Affection was dangerous; it made people careless. It had destroyed her family once. She wouldn’t let it destroy her.
His thumb skimmed the reddened skin, the touch light but grounding. “We should clean that before it blisters.”
The quiet stretched.
“I’ll manage,” she said, pulling back before the warmth of his touch could unravel her resolve. Depending on him, even for a moment, felt more terrifying than the explosion.
Something flickered in his expression—frustration, maybe disappointment—before he stood, the moment gone.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice back to steel. “You always do.”
Blake leaned closer to the compartment, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the faint haze. Smoke curled from the blackened edges, the air still sharp with the metallic tang of spent flare powder. He used a rag to shift a warped panel aside, the wood creaking under his touch.
“Careful,” Vivian warned, her voice too raspy. Her pulse hadn’t settled, and her hand still trembled at her side.
“Relax,” he murmured, too calm, too sure. “It’s not wired to blow twice.”
She bit back the retort forming on her tongue. He always had that tone — the one that made her feel too cautious for worrying, even when the odds of dying were high enough to make most agents sweat.
He reached deeper inside the compartment, then stopped. “Got something.”
Vivian crouched beside him, her flashlight joining his. Inside, half-buried under a layer of ash and melted plastic, lay a folded sheet of paper laminated in cloudy plastic. Blake used the tip of his knife to fish it out and shook off the soot.
When the light hit it, her stomach tightened. “That’s a nautical chart.”
He nodded, flipping it open across his knee. The paper was old but intact, the edges smudged from handling. At the center, someone had circled a single coordinate in red grease pencil. The circle was jagged, the kind made by an impatient hand.
Vivian leaned closer. “That’s due east of Winter Harbor, near the old lighthouse.”
“Which one?”
“The abandoned one. The Coast Guard shut it down after the fire.” She frowned, brain already piecing through possibilities. “Could be a drop point. Or a rendezvous.”
Blake tilted his head, studying the faded numbers like he could read secrets in them. “Or bait.”
She looked up sharply. “You think Laurel planted it?”
“I think someone wanted whoever found this to come looking.” His tone darkened, quiet and certain. “Maybe the last owner of this boat got too close to something he shouldn’t have.”
Vivian’s chest tightened. “Or someone wanted to make sure we do.”
Blake gave a single, thoughtful nod, folding the chart again with practiced care. “Either way, it’s the first breadcrumb we’ve had in days.”
Of course it was.
Vivian sat back on her heels, arms crossed. Just like that—another lead, landing in his lap like divine favor. She got scorched. He got clues. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
He glanced at her, one brow raised. “What?”
“Nothing.” She stood, brushing ash from her pants. “Just wondering how you do it. Every time something blows up—literally—you walk away with a trail to follow while the rest of us are still putting out fires.”
A hint of a grin touched his mouth, the kind that always made her want to throw something. “Guess I’m lucky like that.”
She shook her head, refusing to let him see how that grin still did things to her. “Or maybe Laurel Tide just knows how to reel in the biggest fish.”
He rose, tucking the chart into his coat. “Then I guess we bite.”
Blake cracked two eggs into a dented skillet, the sizzle cutting through the stillness of the cabin. Outside, the wind had calmed to a low whistle, carrying the briny tang of low tide. Pale light seeped through the portholes, turning the air a washed-out gray.
Vivian was at the tiny galley counter, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. Her movements were deliberate, controlled, like she was still trying to wrestle the night before into order.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye, the memory of her scream still branded on him. The smell of burnt varnish lingered, no matter how many times he’d scrubbed the cabin walls while they’d debriefed her non-eventful trip to the store.
“Think you might get some intel beyond the harbor today?” he asked, sliding a spatula under the eggs.
Vivian handed him a mug and shook her head. “More than yesterday, I hope. I’m thinking the harbor area store knew I wasn’t local, so they were too… too—”
“Polished?”
“More like too many charming greetings.”
“Charm’s overrated,” he said.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, leaning against the counter. “People actually talk to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “What can I say? Must be my disarming smile.”
Her lips twitched—barely, but it was there. “More like they’re waiting for you to leave so they can breathe again.”
He flipped the eggs, pretending to take offense. “You wound me, Agent Durand.”
“Not yet,” she said, but the sharpness lacked bite.
He studied her a beat longer. The tension around her eyes hadn’t eased. Beneath the sarcasm, she still looked pale, her right hand red where the flare had burned her.
“Let me see your hand.”
“I’m fine.”
“Viv.” His tone softened. “You were half a second from being charcoal last night. Humor me.”
She hesitated, then sighed and held out her hand. The skin across her palm was pink and tender, the edges raw. He cradled it, turning it so the light caught the damage. Her breath hitched.
“Not too bad,” he murmured, reaching for the first-aid kit. “Could’ve been worse, but need to keep it clean and dry.”
She watched him smear the cool salve across the burn, his fingers steady, careful. “You always this gentle with your field partners?”
He looked up, eyes catching hers. “Only the ones who almost get blown up.”
For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them charged again, like it had in the flare’s aftermath—too close, too fragile.
Then Blake capped the ointment and stepped back, breaking the spell. “You’ll live.”
Vivian pulled her hand back, flexing her fingers. “Guess I should thank you.”