Page 67 of North

“Because it’s real. My dad called me Jack. But I was named after my grandpa—James Cooper, so it felt like the right answer when I went to get us new passports.” He covered her hand with his. Under their fingers, his heart hammered out the truth of who he was, who he could finally be. “Everything from now on—real.”

The fishing boat on the horizon had barely moved, a dark speck against the cloudless sky. Behind them on the deck, their new life waited in two suitcases, everything they dared keep from their old one.

“Tell me again.” She stretched up, kissed his neck. “About our home.”

“Which part?” His fingers found the slight swell of her stomach, hidden beneath the flowing dress. Their miracle. Their future.

“Everything.” She stepped back, and he put the boat into neutral, let it bob on the water. She tugged him toward the cushioned bench along the stern. “Start with the cliff.”

He settled beside her, drew her close against his side. The simple gold band on his finger caught the sunlight. Their hasty but perfect wedding before a magistrate in the small country of Montenegro felt more real with each nautical mile.

“The house sits high above the water,” he said, his arms around her. “White walls rising straight from the cliff face, like they grew there. Blue shutters on every window—the exact blue of your eyes in this light.”

She hummed, content. “And the garden?”

“Wrapped around three sides. Herb beds closest to the kitchen. Your tomatoes and peppers beyond that.” He traced patterns on her shoulder. “Olive trees with plenty of shade for afternoon reading.”

“What about the nursery?” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “Sophie needs a beautiful room.”

“Sophie?” He shifted to see her face. “When did we decide that?”

“Just now.” A smile played on her lips. “After my grandmother. She always liked you.”

His smile dimmed. “The man she knew as Alexander.”

“The man inside.” She touched his cheek. “The good parts we get to keep.”

“Sophie.” He tasted the name. “Sophie Cooper.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“Then we paint the nursery blue.”

She shook her head. “Yellow. Like the sunrise. Boy or girl.”

“Yellow?” He laughed and got back to the helm, put the boat into gear. “I don’t know. I think we talk about blue⁠—”

The world tore apart.

One second, he was laughing, the next, percussion slammed through his body, lifted him off his feet. Heat scorched his lungs. The boat twisted beneath him, metal screaming.

He caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of Timea’s face, her hand reaching for him before the blast threw her over the rail.

And lifted him into the air.

He hit the sea as if it were made of concrete, and it punched the air from his chest. Something cracked inside him—ribs splintering.

Heat seared through him, crumpled him.

He gulped air, got water.

Coughed, blinded, sinking⁠—

He clawed toward the surface, but his leg wouldn’t work right. Every kick sent fresh agony through his body. His lungs screamed for air.

He broke through into a hellscape.

The boat was a torch, the sea aflame, debris raining into the water. Black smoke boiled up, choking him. Spilled fuel slicked the waves.