Chapter 19 · Six Hours, Maybe Less

Calder's hand clamps around my wrist before the wheel even settles into its second notch. Teeth locked mid-turn, like something changed its mind halfway through opening.

"Don't move," he says.

"Wasn't planning a marathon." My voice comes out thinner than I want. The metal under my palm still hums, some leftover charge from whatever handshake just happened between two locks that were never supposed to know each other's names.

The radio bolted to the panel spits static, then a voice, flat and bored, like it's reading off a grocery list. "Vane. Tide's turning. We're good."

Calder's whole body locks up against my back — I feel it before I hear it, the wall of him going rigid, heat rolling off his skin in a wave that smells like engine grease gone sour with sweat. "Say that again."

"Deal's done. She's yours to keep warm till next tide. We'll collect then." Click. Dead air.

I turn inside the cage of his arm because there's nowhere else to turn. "What deal."

"You tell me." His hand comes up fast, grabs my jaw, tilts my face into the emergency light like he's hunting for a lie stitched under my skin. "You made contact.