“What the fuck,” he murmurs.
The fisherman snorts. “You lot done gawkin’ yet?” His scowl deepens, his gaze fixed on us like we’ve trespassed on sacred ground.
I stumble back a step. My mind reels, trying to root itself in logic.
“I—I need to get back,” I stammer, more to myself than anyone else. “Is there a shuttle? Or…or a car service?”
The man barks out a humorless laugh. “Car service?What in the devil’s name are you goin’ on about?”
The words hit like another splash of cold water.
I look to Alder, expecting a plan, a response, anything, but he’s still watching the horizon, lips pressed into a firm line.
“Young people’ve all gone barmy, haven’t they?” The fisherman mutters the words under his breath and scratches his bearded chin. I catch a glimpse of his calloused fingers,the dirt caked under his nails, the deep, dry cracks around his knuckles—this isn’t costume makeup or part of some quaint getaway experience. This is real.
He turns back to the river and dips his bucket back into the rushing water, pulling it up with a grunt.
Alder grabs my arm. “We’re leaving.”
The unease that’s been clawing at me only sharpens its talons as we turn away from the water and head toward the incline. But my feet drag, my body hesitating. Something is pulling me back toward the river.
My fingers twitch and my skin tingles, an electric hum buzzing at my side. My gaze shifts to the dock, drawn by a force I can’t explain.
The tarot card.
It lies on the damp wood, still and ordinary, its edges dulled in the early morning light. It’s not glowing. The figures aren’t moving. The strange energy that seemed to hum from it last night is gone. It’s just a card. Just ink and paper.
Except…it isn’t.
Is it?
I scoop it up, hesitating when my thumb brushes over the smooth surface, searching for the spark I felt before, the faint glow, the shimmer of movement. Nothing. It’s just a card. Just a silly, meaningless card.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I shove it into the pocket of my dress, but I don’t let go. My fingers curl around it, grip tightening, because somehow, letting go doesn’t feel like an option.
Alder’s hand clamps back around my arm. His patience is gone.
“Move, Gemma.” The command is quiet butabsolute. His grip tightens around my wrist, his palm warm, steady—unchallenged. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t question. Because to him, this isn’t a debate.
Alder steers me toward the incline, his pace brisk, purposeful, like the world will rearrange itself the moment he decides it should.
“We’ll find the clubhouse,” he says smoothly, as if nothing about this situation is wildly unhinged. “I’ll call us a car, get us back to my condo.” His voice dips into familiar, honeyed persuasion, all the while leading me exactly where he wants. “I’ll even order the eggs Benedict you like from that café—you know the one.”
“Wait.” I plant my feet, yanking free. “Hold on. This is…”
“Sweetheart…” His voice is low, even, but there’s a razor-thin edge beneath it. “There’s no running away to New York this time.”
I stiffen. “I’m not running—”
His grip finds my wrist again. It’s not tight, not rough. Just firm. As sure and certain as he is.
“What happened to last night, Gemma?” It’s a question that isn’t really a question at all. “What happened to you finally admitting you were done fighting? What happened to me taking care of you, saving you, giving you everything?”
Alder leans in, his heat pressing against me, crowding out the chill, the doubt, the tiny voice still telling me to run.
“I don’t say things like that lightly.” His grip hardens, but his voice turns coaxing. “I meant it—every word.”
