Chapter 6
"You're going to do more than survive," Lucian said, his voice dropping into a rough, low cadence that vibrated directly against my lips. "You're going to watch him bleed."
His mouth came down on mine.
It wasn't gentle. It was the desperate, starved collision of two people who had spent two years pretending they could live without each other, finally stripping away the pretense in the shadow of a firing squad.
His lips were hot, demanding, tasting of salt, bourbon, and a fierce, unyielding devotion that shattered the last remnants of my defense.
I parted my lips with a ragged gasp, my fingers knotting into his dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning out of control.
Lucian grooved a low, guttural sound in his throat, his arm locking around my lower back, lifting me slightly against the edge of the walnut desk. For a few frantic, breathless seconds, the ship, the guards, the wedding dress, the three hundred billionaires below—all of it ceased to exist.
There was only the scent of cedar and sea salt, the crushing pressure of his mouth, and the wild, frantic beating of our hearts matching stride for stride.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath coming in jagged, uneven bursts. His eyes were black, blown wide with adrenaline and a heat so intense it felt like a fever.
"Twenty minutes," he whispered against my lips, his thumb brushing over my swollen mouth. "Can you do it?"
I looked at him, my pulse thudding in my ears, but for the first time in six months, the fear was gone. In its place was a cold, razor-sharp focus.
"I can do it," I said, my voice steady. "Where is the hatch release?"
Lucian straightened up, though his hand remained firmly on my hip, unwilling to break contact entirely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small titanium keycard, unbranded, with a magnetic strip along the edge.
"Lower tender bay, starboard bulkhead," he instructed, his voice snapping back into the crisp, tactical tone of a commander. "The door is marked *Auxiliary Pump 4*. This card overrides the magnetic seals. When Thorne kills the primary power, the lock will click green for ninety seconds. You slip inside, dog the hatch behind you, and hit the emergency ladder down to the dive platform. My tender pilot—a Greek named Kostas who owes me his life—will be waiting with the engine running."
I took the card, the metal cold against my heated skin, and slipped it into the small pocket inside my bodice.
"What about you?" I asked, looking up at him, a sharp knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. "If you're seen near the tender bay—"
"I won't be," Lucian said, a ghost of a dangerous, arrogant smile touching the corners of his mouth. "I have to be in the grand salon, standing right next to Tate when the champagne tower crashes. I'm going to be the one who offers him a napkin when he spills his drink in the dark."
"Lucian—"
"I'll meet you on the mothership in four hours, Blythe," he said softly, his fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered, tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that made my chest ache. "Trust me. For once in your life... trust me."
I held his gaze for three long heartbeats, then nodded. "I trust you."
He let out a slow breath, his hand sliding away with visible reluctance. "Go. Use the service stairs behind the library. Miller will be moving toward the ballroom to prepare for the midnight speech. You have eight minutes to reach Deck Three."
I took a step toward the hidden service door behind the walnut bookshelves, then stopped, turning back to look at him.
He was reaching for his tuxedo jacket, slipping it back over those broad, formidable shoulders, resetting the mask of the ruthless billionaire shipping titan.
"Lucian?"
He looked up, pausing with his hands on his lapels.
"When this is over," I said, my voice quiet, clear, and without a trace of hesitation, "we're renegotiating Rotterdam."
The lethal, genuine smile that broke across Lucian Vance’s face was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Whatever you want, Blythe," he murmured. "I’ll give you the whole damn ocean."
***
I slipped through the library's service exit into the narrow, dimly lit stairwell.
The air in the stairwell was hotter here, heavy with the humid scent of hydraulic oil and sea spray wafting up from the bilge. The steady, hypnotic *thud-thud-thud* of the yacht's massive twin diesel engines vibrated through the steel handrail beneath my fingers.
*Eleven thirty-two.*
Eight minutes until the drop.
I gathered the heavy train of my wedding dress into both arms, hoisting the yards of silk and lace above my knees so I wouldn't trip on the narrow, grating metal steps.
My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but it wasn't the suffocating panic of a trapped beast anymore. It was the cold, electric surge of a prisoner who could finally see the open sky through the bars.
Down two flights. Deck Three.
The corridor was completely deserted.
The altered security schedules were working. Lucian’s allies had done their jobs. Miller and the rest of Tate’s personal contractors had been pulled up to the mezzanine to oversee the crowd control for the midnight toast.
The walls hummed with power. Somewhere above my head, three hundred of the wealthiest people in the western hemisphere were raising flutes of vintage Krug, laughing at Tate Greystone’s jokes, while Arthur Pendelton and Julian Thorne prepared to throw the master breaker.
I reached the service locker where the weighted decoy dress hung.
Moving with absolute precision, I unhooked the decoy from its hanger. The dress was shockingly heavy—twenty pounds of dense dive weights sewn into the hem and lining.
I hauled it into my arms, the lace rough against my skin, and moved toward the heavy steel bulkhead door at the end of the hall.
Above the door, a red stenciled sign read: **EMERGENCY ACCESS // STARBOARD OBSERVATION DECK // AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY**.
I reached for the manual dogging lever. The heavy steel bar turned smoothly under my palms, coated in fresh marine grease. Someone had oiled the hinges within the last hour.
I pushed the door open two inches.
A blast of cold, salt-laden Atlantic wind hit me square in the face, instantly whipping loose strands of my hair across my eyes.
The roar of the ocean outside was deafening. *The Aethelgard* was cutting through the swells at twenty-two knots, throwing up massive plumes of white foam that glowed like phosphorescent ghosts in the deep, ink-black water below.
The sky above was starless, swallowed by heavy, low-hanging storm clouds. Perfect cover.
I checked my watch.
**23:38.**
Two minutes.
I waited in the shadow of the steel doorway, holding the weighted decoy dress against my hip, my fingers curled tightly around the titanium keycard in my bodice.
Down on the lower platform, twenty feet below, the sleek, hydrodynamic shape of the auxiliary tender bay sat sealed beneath its flush hull panels. Just beyond it, hidden in the pitch-black chop of the ocean wake, Kostas was waiting in the stealth launch.
