Chapter 8 #3
With one hand, he held the end of the tape against her skin, and with the other, he guided her to lift her arm slightly.
She sucked in a breath, chest trembling.
Blake steadied her elbow, fingers brushing the delicate inside of her arm.
He knew she felt small like this. Too small.
And he hated that fate had dealt her this kind of vulnerability.
He wrapped the tape slowly around her ribs, feeling every stagger of her breathing under his fingertips. Her skin was warm, fragile. Bruised. And she was letting him close—closer than he had any right to be.
“Almost done,” he whispered when she clenched her jaw at the next pass.
Her eyes fluttered shut. “You’re gentle,” she breathed, almost surprised.
“With you? Always.”
Her lashes lifted, gaze meeting his. But he didn’t let himself get lost in it—not now.
He focused on his hands, the steady pressure of the tape, the curve of her waist under his palm, the way she leaned ever so slightly into his touch when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
When he secured the final strip, he brushed his thumb along her side, a silent question.
“Better?” he asked.
Vivian inhaled slowly. The breath still hurt—of course it did—but she didn’t fold inward this time. “Yeah. It helps.”
Blake stood but didn’t move far. He couldn’t, not when she was looking at him like that—like the storm outside was nothing compared to what was happening in the space between them.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself back into the moment. Back into the mission. “Good,” he said softly. “Because we’re not done. And I need you as strong as you can be.”
Her lips curved—tired, small, but real. “Then don’t go far.”
A promise or a plea, he wasn’t sure. But he nodded once.
“Not a chance.”
Vivian gathered the gear that Thirteen had provided them, efficient and silent. Her movements precise, trained—but her fingers shook when she thought he wasn’t looking. He saw anyway. He always did.
He crouched to check the rifle. “We’ll need to keep to the ridgeline. Stay out of the open.”
She nodded without looking up. “You think Thirteen’s right? That they’ll be sweeping the inlet by sundown?”
“Yeah.” He cinched the strap tight. “They’ll double back, run perimeter scans. We’ll have to move fast and cold.”
Vivian zipped her coat, the sound loud in the silence. “Fast and cold,” she repeated softly. “Seems to be our specialty.”
He glanced over then—just a glance, but it lingered. Stray strands of her hair had escaped her hood, brushing her cheek in the draft. She caught him looking and held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than she should have.
The air in the room thickened. His throat worked once before he found his voice. “You should eat something before we go.”
Her lips tilted in the faintest smile. “You mean before we freeze, get shot at, and maybe rescue a kidnapped child?” She stepped closer, and he saw her intentions in her eyes.
“That’s the one.” He chuckled. “We’re a cliché.”
Her smile faded, replaced by something softer. “You’re deflecting again.”
He huffed a quiet breath, half laugh, half admission. “Habit. But true. We’re a team that spends too much time together. Things are bound to happen.”
“It’s more than that, and you and I both know it,” she said, stepping closer, her voice barely above the howling storm. “You make excuses to keep distance. Even when you’re standing right in front of me.”
The words hit harder than he wanted them to. He looked down, adjusting the strap on his pack even though it didn’t need it. “Distance keeps people alive.”
“Does it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Vivian moved past him to the small table, sliding a pistol into her holster. “You kissed me,” she said finally, not as accusation, but as fact. “That’s not distance.”
He turned away, staring at the frost creeping along the window’s edge. “That was a mistake.” He hated himself for being the love-them-and-leave-them type she’d always thought him to be. But what could he offer her beyond this life of pain and danger?
She didn’t get mad, yell, push him away. “Was it?”
Her voice threaded into him—low, steady, impossible to ignore.
He turned back to her, eyes dark. “You think I don’t want to do that again?” The words came out rough. “You think I haven’t been trying not to look at you since the second I woke up?”
The silence after was heavy enough to feel. The storm rattled the window, ice scraping the glass.
Vivian swallowed, the faintest flush touching her neck. “Then why stop?”
“Because I can’t afford to lose you.” His tone went quiet, almost breaking. “Not to them. Not to me.”
Blake stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the gap between them until her breath brushed his chest. “If we make it out of this alive, maybe I’ll figure out how to do this right. How to have a life that isn’t all guns and missions.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He pressed a kiss to her forehead—chaste, careful, but it carried everything he couldn’t say.
Vivian’s eyes fluttered closed.
When he stepped back, he felt the loss immediately.
“Let’s move,” he said. Embracing his soldier side again. Controlled. Focused. “We’ve got a little girl to save.”
Outside, the wind roared. Blake opened the door, the cold slamming into him like a wall. He looked back once, catching her gaze before they stepped into the white.
She followed without a word.
Behind them, the cottage fell silent, just another shadow in the snow, already disappearing. Ahead lay only the storm, the docks, and the reckoning waiting on both.
The wind quieted by the time they reached the edge of the inlet. Snow still fell, but softer now, the world wrapped in a dim gray silence. Blake crouched behind a half-buried piling, scanning the docks through his scope. Frost rimmed the edges of the glass, turning light into ghosts.
He adjusted focus—there. Two guards, one near the warehouse entrance, the other walking the perimeter where floodlights carved bright scars through the dark.
A truck idled near the water, engine running low to keep warm.
Cargo crates stacked three high lined the pier, stenciled with the same insignia he’d seen on the trawler at Christmas Harbor: a laurel wreath curled around a wave.
Laurel Tide’s mark.
Vivian crouched beside him, close enough that he felt her breath brush his cheek through the cold. “How many?” she whispered.
“Four, maybe five on visible patrol.” He shifted, tracing the shadows beyond the lights.
“Probably double that inside.” Her gloved hand pressed against the dock railing, steadying herself against the slick wood.
“According to Thirteen’s intel, there’ll be light security inside right now since most of the men are working on loading.” He checked his watch, then the movement of the guard pacing the south pier. Timing patterns, steps, hesitation. Years of training wrapped into habit.
But even with the focus, a part of him—stubborn and human—kept track of her instead. How she moved when the wind cut sharper. How her eyes caught the light like glass when she turned toward the water. How close she was, and how much he didn’t want her anywhere near this.
“Blake.” Her whisper drew him back. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you think too loud.”
He almost smiled despite the cold. “Old habit.”
She shifted closer, eyes still on the docks. “You keep looking at me like I’m one of the things you have to protect.”
“You’re my partner,” he said. “That’s the job.”
“That’s not all it is,” she countered softly. “Not anymore.”
The words hit deep, right beneath the armor he’d spent a lifetime building. He tried to shake it off, returning his eye to the scope. “You can psychoanalyze me after we’re not in a kill zone.”
“Noted,” she whispered, but he could hear the faint smile in it. “But for now, you need to bury it, deep. Or it’ll get us both killed.”
He refocused on the warehouse. A door opened. A man stepped out—broad-shouldered, coat collar pulled high. The laurel tattoo flashed as he passed under the light, the ink black against pale skin.
“There,” Blake murmured. “That’s one of them.”
Vivian followed his gaze. “The same insignia.”
“Yeah.” He lowered the scope. “They’re prepping something big. You see those cables?”
She squinted, then nodded. “Connecting to the crane. They’re lifting cargo onto the ship.”
“Not cargo.” Blake’s stomach tightened. “Containers that size—ventilation ports, reinforced frames… Those are holding cells.”
Her breath hitched. “The girl.”
“More than one,” he said. His voice came out hard, flat. “We go in quiet. If we’re lucky, we find her before they finish loading.”
The wind picked up again, carrying the metallic tang of salt and diesel. Blake signaled for them to move, leading her along the narrow edge of the pier. Boards creaked beneath their boots, the sound swallowed by the hum of the generator and the low whine of winches.
At the base of the crane, he crouched again, gesturing toward a small side door. “We’ll breach there. Quieter than the main bay.”
Vivian nodded, unholstering her weapon. “You cover left, I’ll clear the storage corridor.”
“Copy.”
He hesitated, watching her steady her breathing. The same woman who’d taken a hit two nights ago, who’d still insisted on standing her ground. The same woman he’d kissed without meaning to—and couldn’t stop thinking about since.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
She looked at him, eyes fierce beneath the brim of her hood. “I’m with you.”
Something in his chest twisted—pride, fear, want, all tangled. “All right,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”
He pushed the door open, a faint squeal from its hinges. Cold air and the smell of oil spilled out. Inside, the dim corridor stretched toward a loading platform lit by a single flickering bulb. Shadows moved beyond the doorway—two guards, talking low.
Blake raised his hand—two fingers. She nodded. On his count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Blake didn’t risk a shot — too loud, too soon. His arm snaked around the man’s neck, dragging him down before the guard could shout. Vivian moved in perfect sync. She lunged, striking the second across the jaw with the butt of her weapon.
Silence. No alarms. Only the slow drip of oil and the groan of metal.
“Clear,” Blake whispered.
Vivian crouched beside the downed man, checking his wrist. “No laurel tattoo.”
He frowned. “Local hires. The higher-ups are still inside.”
They secured both out of sight, gagged and tied.
They crept forward. At the next steel door, Blake froze, pointing to a boot print near the threshold—fine grit tracked from outside. “Someone’s already been through here,” Blake said.
Outside, the wind keened through the docks — and underneath it came a faint metallic sound, rhythmic and hollow, like chains dragging beneath the tide.
Blake’s gut went cold. The tide stirred, and something beneath the surface stirred with it.