Dawn bled gray across the windows, catching the tired edges of his face.
Vivian pressed her palms to her knees, grounding herself against the trembling that wouldn’t stop. “We’re walking into the same mess that got Jenson killed. And you want to fight about the past?”
“I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Their eyes met—too much history, too much heat, too little air. It felt like the boat wasn’t the only thing in danger of sinking.
Outside, fog pressed against the windows, thick and restless. Then the hull shifted beneath them—slow, deliberate, a wake rolling underfoot.
Vivian’s head snapped toward the sound. Her hand went for the gun out of instinct, heartbeat slamming back to full alert.
Blake was already moving to the porthole, eyes narrowing. “Someone’s circling.”
The fatigue vanished, burned off by adrenaline. She crossed to his side, the argument still hanging between them, raw and unfinished—but for now, survival came first.
“Guess we’re not the only ones who can’t sleep,” she said, voice steady.
Blake’s mouth curved. “Told you. Nobody plays both sides for long.”
The hull groaned again, a low, hollow sound that vibrated through the soles. Not the slap of a passing wake. Heavier. Closer.
Vivian shoved her chilled toes into her boots. “That wasn’t the tide.”
Blake was already moving. He crossed to the cabin door, movements fluid and soundless. He threw open the door.
The cold hit her, sharp and briny, thick with mist. Every creak of the dock sounded amplified. The water lapped against the hull with uneven rhythm, like something brushing too close.
Blake crouched near the stern, scanning the dark surface. The water shimmered faintly from a nearby dock light, catching his profile in fractured gold. “You hear that?” he murmured.
She did. A faint metallicping, like something tapping against the hull. “Could be debris,” she whispered.
“Could be a lot worse.”
He reached for the boathook hanging off the rail, dipping the end beneath the surface. The metal clicked against something solid. Not driftwood. Hard. Fixed.
Her pulse quickened. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. His shoulders bunched, and he leaned farther over the side, hand plunged into the icy water.
“Small, round.” He blinked up at her. “A tracker puck.” It’s fresh,” Blake added. “There’s no growth or barnacles. Someone planted this after we boarded.
Their eyes met—wary, stubborn, and undeniably linked by something neither of them was ready to name.
Cold slid deeper than the wind. A tracker meant exposure. Failure. Another stain she’d never scrub from her record—one more reason for people to whisper that she’d only gotten this far because of who her father wasn’t anymore.
She masked the hit with a slow breath, but Blake’s eyes flicked to her face—sharp, too knowing.
“It’s bad,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Not panicked. Just certain.
Vivian’s stomach dropped.
For a second, the air between them held still. The storm wind rattled the rigging overhead, but all she could hear was the steady beat of her pulse.
She forced herself to think. “We can’t pull it off now. If it’s transmitting, they’ll know it was found.”
He nodded once, the movement deliberate. “It’s a good sign.”
Vivian frowned, rain dripping from her lashes. “A good sign? Our boat’s dead, wired to explode, and we’re sitting in the dark. Why even bother with a tracker?”
