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.”
