Chapter 3 · Blood on the Door

Three minutes on that floor. That’s how long I lasted.

Warped pine dug straight into my hip like it had a personal grudge. A draft cut up through the cracks off the harbor—diesel, dead crabs, low tide. Three feet above me, the penniless dockhand I’d married four hours ago was breathing slow and deep, like a man who’d never had a single bad night in his life.

I rolled over. The mattress springs groaned.

"You’re doing that on purpose," I said.

Garrett didn't open his eyes. "Doing what?"

"Breathing loud."

"Want me to stop?"

"I want you to remember the deal. Six months. Zero touching. You get the bed, fine, but you don't talk to me past ten."

He shifted, throwing one heavy arm behind his head. The coarse sheet slid down his chest. I jerked my eyes away so fast I felt the pull in my neck.

"Nine forty," he murmured. "You’re early."

I sat up, hugging my knees. The kerosene heater ticked in the corner like an old bomb. Across from the mattress sat a stall shower with frosted glass and no curtain. I’d jump in the freezing harbor before I stripped down in front of him in this loft.

Out past the breakwater, that dark shape was still sitting on the black water. Long, low, running without lights. Way too big for a fishing boat.

My phone buzzed on the floor.

June. Of course it was June.

A photo came through first. The settlement contract laid out on polished marble. My signature, still glossy in the flash.

*Daddy had it framed for the study,* she texted. *Nice penmanship, Vivi.*

Ten seconds later: *He says you’re officially not his problem anymore. Don’t come to the house.*

Then: *Also, I sent a couple guys over to grab whatever’s left of your things. Don’t be dramatic.*

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. My mother’s ventilator was humming across town in a clinic with an overdue power bill, and my little sister was texting me like she’d just cleaned out my closet for fun.

"Hey." My voice sounded brittle. Thin. "Does June know this address?"

The mattress creaked. When I looked up, Garrett was already sitting on the edge, forearms resting on his knees. Every trace of lazy dockhand had drained right out of him.

"Read it to me."

I read the texts out loud.

He was on his feet before I finished the last sentence. Not rushing. Silent. That was what put cold water in my veins—how he crossed those uneven pine planks barefoot without making a single board squeak. A man who moved like that hadn't learned it tying off ferry lines.

"Lights," he said.

"What?"

He reached down and twisted the valve on the kerosene heater. The dark dropped over us like an iron trap.

"Behind the bed. Get down. Stay off the floorboards near the jamb."

"Garrett—"

"Get down, Vivian."

Then I heard them.

Heavy work boots taking the wooden stairs three floors down. Two steps at a time. No stealth. Just the heavy, casual tread of men who knew no one inside could do a damn thing to stop them.

I scrambled behind the mattress and dropped flat.

The first strike blew rust and dust straight out of the ceiling rafters. The second bowed the wood in its frame with a sickening *crack*, followed by the dull clang of a crowbar.

A man chuckled on the other side. Friendly. Like he was dropping off takeout.

"Voss! Open up, big guy. We're just here to collect the lady’s things."

Garrett didn't move. He stood just inside the shadow of the doorframe, still as carved stone.

"You hear me? Miss Shore says Vivian left some paperwork behind. Plus the lease slip for this dock. We’re doing you a favor, so don't be stupid about it." A wet cough in the hall. "Oh, and she told us to make sure your girl knows: the juice on the hospice floor goes off Friday no matter what. So."

My fingers dug into the splinters in the floor. My teeth started chattering so hard I had to bite my own tongue to keep quiet.

A third strike split the lock cleanly in two.

A strip of dingy hallway yellow flooded across the room as a leather shoulder shoved through the opening.

The rest of it took four seconds.

Garrett didn't yell. He didn't even draw back to swing. He grabbed the lead wrist as it pushed inside, snapped it sideways, and the crowbar clattered across the floor with a chime that hit like an electric shock. Before the guy could yell, Garrett smashed the door back into his face. Bone crunched. Loud. Awful.

The second guy took a bare heel straight to the center of his chest and crashed backward down the stairwell, tumbling over his own boots. The third one I didn't see at all—just a short, wet thud against the banister and a scream cut off halfway through, like someone had stomped the air straight out of his lungs.

Scrambling boots. Panic on the stairs. The ground-floor exit slammed so hard the floor shook under my chest. A truck engine gunned, tires squealed on wet asphalt, and then it was gone.

Nothing left but the tide slapping against the pilings outside.

Garrett stepped back into the loft and pulled the shattered door shut. It wouldn't latch anymore. The wood hung crooked in the frame.

His breathing was slightly heavier now. Just slightly.

"Garrett," I whispered.

"Yeah."

"You’re bleeding."

"Not mine." He walked right past me toward the sink, bare feet silent on the pine. "Blood’s on the wood, too."

I forced myself up. My knees were shaking so violently I had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. In the sliver of streetlight, the fractured pine was coated in something dark and wet. It dripped down the splintered grain. *Drip. Drip.*

I should have dialed 911. I should have asked where he hid a weapon, or who he really was. Instead, the stupidest words in the world spilled out of my mouth.

"You told me you worked the docks."

"I do work the docks."

"Dockhands don't take down three grown men with crowbars in ten seconds without making a sound."

"Vivian."

He didn't cross the distance—he closed it. Before I could flinch, his chest was inches from mine, radiating pure, suffocating heat. My back hit the splintered pine. The broken edge bit right between my shoulder blades.

His right hand slammed flat against the wall right beside my ear. He didn't touch me, but his torn, bloody knuckles were an inch from my cheek.

My breath hitched in my chest.

His head tilted down until I could smell the sea salt, cold sweat, and sharp iron on his skin. His mouth grazed the skin just under my jaw, settling directly over my pulse point—where the blood was hammering against his lower lip.

"That the wedding gift your sweet little sister promised you?" he rasped against my skin.