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“Rope.”
Tugging the closest one I could reach out of its pulley, I handed the end to Damien and watched as he quickly tied it to a hook on the side of Da’s boat. We were drifting straight toward the last trawler in the row, but Damien made no attempt to straighten the wheel. Instead, he grabbed the other end of the rope, climbed onto the bow, and leaped onto the boat we were a meter away from hitting. In the span of one held breath, he dashed across the deck, scaled the ladder attached to the seawall, dug his bare feet into the ledge at the top, and pulled until the Pride of Howth stopped and reversed course.
Shadows settled into the valleys between his bulging muscles as he guided her backward and sideways into the empty spot behind the other trawler. Moonlight clung to his chiseled features and furrowed brow as he tied us off. And once he was satisfied—hands on his hips and head thrown back in relief—I gazed up at him in absolute awe. I felt as though I were seeing him for the first time—the real him. Damien wasn’t my burden or my enemy or my grief-induced delusion anymore. He had a name. He had a story. And he had my undying gratitude.
I’d been too confused and upset to understand the magnitude of what he’d done for me at the fish market, but it was clear to me now how much he’d risked to save me. How terrifying it must have been to walk into that place, injured, unarmed, outnumbered, and how far he’d had to push himself, mentally and physically, to get us both out alive.
What wasn’t clear to me was his motivation. Had it been love … or hate?
My heart sank as I weighed those options. There was no way he cared about me enough to do what he’d just done. He barely knew me, and even if he did, I wasn’t the type of girl men risked their lives for. I wasn’t even the type they risked being seen with in public.
Which meant that it was option number two—hate. Just like Oliver. That killing spree had probably been fueled by a personal vendetta against his father and the Bratva, and I was just along for the ride.
He probably felt obligated to save me because I’d kept him alive in the cave, and that’s fine, I told myself as I clomped up the ladder to the top of the seawall in Damien’s oversize boots.
It was more than anyone else would have done, I rationalized, accepting his warm, outstretched hand.
Just be grateful, make yourself useful, and don’t piss him off, I thought, unable to look him in the eye as he helped me up.
I opened my mouth to say thank you, but before I could, Damien whisked me across the street and into the shadows of the last building in the row of shops facing the water.
We stood face-to-face, each with a shoulder against the brick, and when he released my hand, I wished that he hadn’t.
“Where are we?” I whispered, trying to ignore the ache in my heart as I looked around at the empty roads and dark windows. “And why hasn’t this place been destroyed? The Russians are here.”
“Wexford,” Damien replied, his voice as soft and gentle as a feather against my cheek. “Howth was the only coastal town the Navy had orders to destroy—they wanted to clear a path from the sea to Dublin. The rest of the ports and harbors they want to keep intact. Russia’s cut off from most first-world countries, so Ireland’s going to be its primary trading hub once it falls.”
Once it falls. Not if.
“Is everyone gone?” I whispered.
“I fuckin’ hope so.”
I glanced up, and Damien’s guarded eyes were the same color as the fog in the harbor.
“The crew will sleep on the ship—encampments are only for prisoners of war and surveillance teams—but until lights out, they’ll be raiding the shelves of every pub in town.”
Surveillance.
My hands began to shake.
I couldn’t face another drone. I couldn’t.
Just then, a crash shattered the stillness, followed by raucous laughter and booming Russian voices.
I jumped, but Damien clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle my shriek as his head twisted to the side, listening.
Without looking at me, his other hand wrapped around the back of my neck, guiding my ear toward his mouth.
“Shh … it’s okay,” he whispered, only loud enough for me to hear. “Some arsehole just lost a poker game … threw a chair out a pub window.” He paused to listen to the men shouting, their argument spilling into the night through the broken glass. “He’s accusin’ somebody of cheatin’. They’re not too happy about that.”
Wrapping my fingers around the hand covering my mouth, I gently pulled it away, and Damien let me, turning to face me in the dark.
“They sound so close.” My words were barely audible over the panicked pounding of blood in my ears.
With one hand on the back of my neck and the other being gripped by both of mine, Damien pulled me even closer and whispered, “You’re okay. Just keep listenin’.”
Then, he led me by my clutching hands around to the back of the building.
