The first thing James noticed when he woke was the sound. Not voices, not footsteps, not gunfire—the sea. It was steady, low, and ceaseless. The waves rolled against the stone of the harbour wall beyond their window, carrying with them the kind of rhythm that felt older than anything else. A rhythm that could outlast even Hale blood.
Penelope was already up. She sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, hair loose around her shoulders, watching the light over the water. She didn’t turn when he shifted against the bedframe, but he saw her hand tighten on the blanket draped around her.
For a moment, James only watched her. The frailty of the morning light softened the harsh lines of the night before. She looked less like a fugitive and more like herself again, but with something added—a
