Chapter 16 · One Canvas Tarp in the Gale

The rain wasn't rain anymore.

It came off the harbor sideways, hard enough to scour paint off the siding. Garrett kicked the loft door shut with his heel, his right hand dripping dark blood into the floorboards, jaw locked tight.

Three hours ago, he'd slammed a crooked port inspector face-first into an electrical box.

Now he was standing in my kitchen, chest heaving under a ruined flannel, and all my traitor brain could replay was the feel of his forearm crushing my ribs while he shoved me behind him.

Above us, the ceiling timbers let out a long, groaning shriek. Pure hull-stress.

"Vivian. Off the bed. Now."

I swung one leg out just as the pine seam ripped. Water hit the mattress in a solid grey rope, exploding dead center across my pillow.

"Son of a bitch—"

He grabbed the mattress corner one-handed. Hauled eighty pounds of sodden cotton off the frame despite his split knuckles, tossing it aside like scrap wood. Before I could breathe, another stream punched through the drywall above the stove.

"Pans," he snapped, eyes tracking the ceiling beam. "Under the ridge. Move."

We had four.