Page 24 of The Captain
“Are you defending them?” I asked. The question hurt me. I asked it, anyway.
He shook his head, slow, like he was easing a valve. “Non. I am reminding you that a conclusion that arrives faster thanthe facts is a kind of superstition.” His mouth softened. “The Navy has been good to me, Camille. Good to us. NAVSEA was the contract that brought your mother and me here. I built my first American hull with their spec book open and a dictionary beside it. They paid on time when no one else did. When the banks looked at my accent and saw risk, the purchase orders said capacity.” He tapped the invoices. “Do not make an enemy because it feels righteous. Make one because the data says you must.”
I stared at the tag on his desk until it blurred. A conclusion faster than the facts. The line landed where it needed to—somewhere tight behind my breastbone. In the space it made, a voice slipped in uninvited, low and rough at my ear:Breathe.
Jacob.
Steady hands, a command that wasn’t a command, the way my body had answered before my mouth did. Heat flickered, then settled into something cooler, more useful. I could be sharp without letting anger steer. I had to be.
“You think I’m wrong,” I said, not quite a challenge.
“I think you are dangerous when you are certain,” he said, and his eyes crinkled because he loved that about me, even when it frightened him. “Be certain of the right thing. The sea is not a courtroom—it is a system. Many hands touch a mistake before it reaches your beach.”
I let out a breath. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll slow down. I’ll prove it before I burn it.”
“Bon.” He lifted his chin toward the door. “Go save what you can save today.”
Outside, the yard’s heat curled around me, and the river turned its lazy, dangerous face toward the harbor.
I set my palms on the wheel and did the smallest obedient thing a stubborn woman can do: I breathed. Once, twice, slow.Then I turned the key and pointed myself back toward the animals who needed hands, not conclusions.
10
JACOB
TheEclipsecut through the Atlantic with ease, the coastline unspooling to starboard as Marcus played tour guide. I wasn’t a stranger to the Eastern Seaboard—years of ops and training had taken me from Norfolk to Miami, sandy spits to concrete piers, and I’d seen enough of the coast to know its moods.
But Marcus’s enthusiasm was a force, his voice carrying over the wind as he pointed out landmarks like a kid showing off his favorite hiding spots. “That’s Morris Island,” he said, gesturing at a low smear of sand. “Lighthouse is half-sunk now, but it’s got stories. Civil War shit, ghosts, the works.”
His grin was infectious, and despite the lingering throb in my head, I appreciated the effort. The guy was trying, and I wasn’t so far gone I couldn’t give him that.
We stood on the flybridge, the teak deck warm under my feet, the horizon a sharp line of blue and green. The yacht was a floating fortress—billionaire huge, all sleek lines and overpowered engines, the kind of wealth that didn’t just buy luxury, but control. I filed the details again: the radar masthumming with tech that could probably track a minnow in a storm, the crew moving with a quiet efficiency that screamed training, the way the tinted windows reflected the sea like they were guarding secrets.
My hangover was a dull ache now, dulled by the coffee and the salt air, but my mind stayed sharp, mapping, assessing. Marcus might’ve been a smartass, but this setup was no joke.
“So, what’s with the tour?” I asked, leaning on the railing, keeping my tone even. “You showing me the sights to soften me up?”
Marcus laughed, that bright, unguarded sound that seemed to bounce off the water. He leaned back, his wetsuit still damp, blonde hair catching the sun.
“Nah, man. It’s because the beautiful but pain-in-the-ass Dr. Allard is giving the Navy a run for their money.” He rolled his eyes, playful but pointed. “Look, I get it—the military fucks up the environment sometimes. We’ve all seen the headlines. Oil spills, sonar screwing with whales, whatever. But come on, when’s enough enough? How the hell are guys like us supposed to find and kill bad guys when every environmental weenie with a pen makes our lives miserable?”
I didn’t disagree. Hell, I agreed more than I wanted to admit. I’d seen trainings scrubbed because of an endangered woodpecker, a whole battalion grounded over a bird no one could even find. I’d stood there, sweating in my gear, thinking about the Marine who might die because we didn’t get that extra day on the range. Would the environmentalist who pushed that paperwork be happy with the trade-off? Probably. They’d sleep fine, their conscience clean, while we buried our own.
The thought soured me on Camille, just a bit. If she was the enemy, so be it. Time would tell. I kept my face impassive, giving Marcus a nod.
“Yeah. I’ve seen it. Good intentions, bad outcomes.”
He tilted his head, like he was reading me. “Exactly. And that’s where Dominion Hall comes in. We’re the glue in this town—Charleston’s got its power players, and we’re the ones who keep things from falling apart. Someone with a pretty smart head figured we could smooth things out between the Navy and Allard. Keep the peace, you know?”
I raised a brow, sipping the cold dregs of my coffee. “Why do you give a shit? Let the Navy and the enviro-nuts duke it out.”
Marcus shrugged, his grin turning sly. “Sometimes the fun’s in the mess, you know? Stir it up, see what floats.” He paused, his eyes glinting with that comical glimmer I was starting to recognize. “Which brings us to you.”
I straightened, my pulse ticking up. “Finally. Why the hell am I here?”
He leaned against the railing, the wind tugging at his hair. “Originally, you were gonna help me scope out what the Navy’s doing—or not doing. Recon, real quiet-like. Scuba Steve style. But I’ve been thinking, and I’m calling an audible.” He gave me a look, sharp and knowing, like he’d seen right through me. “You’re gonna play liaison with Dr. Camille Allard. But … you must be on your best behavior, Marine.”
My jaw tightened. That look—he knew. Somehow, Ryker or Atlas had tipped him off about me and Camille. My night with her—her nails, her moans, the way she’d taken me like she was claiming me—flashed through my head, and I fought to keep my face blank. I wasn’t about to lie, though. Honor was honor.
