I hate it. I hate being dependent. I hate being handled.
But I also hate being dead, so.
The SUV merges onto the highway. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not my mother. It’s an unknown number. A single text pops up on my screen.
YOU CAN’T HIDE BEHIND SOLDIERS FOREVER.
My blood turns cold.
Sin notices instantly, because of course he does. He doesn’t miss anything. “What is it?” he asks.
I hold up the phone. His gaze locks on the message, and the humor drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “Give me that,” he says, voice sharp now.
I hand it over, fingers suddenly clumsy.
He types something fast, then he pulls out a little baggie and slips the phone in it. “Rowan,” he says, low and controlled, “from this moment on, you do exactly what I say.”
My mouth goes dry. “Was that… was that them?”
His eyes cut to the road, scanning, calculating. “Yeah,” he says. “And it means they know you’re moving.”
A chill slips down my spine. I try to laugh, because that’s what I do when I’m terrified, but the sound comes out thin. “Well,” I manage, “at least my mother hired the charming one.”
Sin’s gaze snaps back to mine. And his voice goes even lower. “You haven’t seen charming yet.”
THREE
SIN
The Boathouse sits on the edge of Tidehaven’s marsh like it grew out of salt and stubbornness. From the road it looks like a renovated relic, all weathered brick and wide steel doors, the kind shrimp boats used to back into when this place still smelled like diesel and brine and hard labor. Now it smells like bleach, coffee, and gun oil. Progress, I guess.
The tide is low. Mud flats glisten under the late-day sun, and the marsh grass sways like it’s whispering secrets to itself. The driver turns into the lot, and my eyes sweep the perimeter out of habit. He parks where we can see the main entrance and the boat bay door. No blind spots. No surprises.
Rowan sits in the back seat, sunglasses off now, face angled toward the building. Her expression is casual enough to fool someone who doesn’t do this for a living.
I know better.
Her knee bounces once, quick and subtle, then stills like she caught herself doing it. Her fingers tighten around her tote strap, knuckles pale for half a second. She’s scared. She’s alsofighting it the same way she fights everything else, by turning it into a joke before it can turn into a problem.
The driver cuts the engine. “We’re here.”
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” I open the door. “Come on, it’s headquarters for the company your mom hired.”
“Sure.” She sighs. “Headquarters for fishermen. Or pirates. Or fisherman pirates.”
I glance at her. “You want to stay in the car, that’s an option.”
Her chin lifts. “I’m not staying in the car. That’s how women end up in documentaries.”
“Fair point.” I get out first, circle around, and open her door. Not because she needs help. Because I like controlling entry and exit. Because if anything comes at us, it’s coming at me first.
Rowan steps down, tote on her shoulder like she’s walking into a networking event instead of a security facility. She looks up at the building again, eyes tracking the big boat-bay doors and the cameras tucked into the corners of the structure. She notices everything. That’s part of why she’s in this mess.
“Salt & Steel,” she murmurs. “Your people?”
