Elena woke to the sound of bells.

Not the sharp, insistent ring of an alarm, but something deeper. Slower. A single bronze note that rolled across the water and through the hull of the Briar Rose like a struck tuning fork. She lay still for a moment, her cheek pressed to the pillow that still smelled faintly of Liam—cedar and something darker, something that made her stomach tighten—and listened.

Ding. Ding.

The rhythm was patient. Almost sleepy. But each toll came a little louder than the last. Closing distance.

She pushed herself up on one elbow. The cabin was empty, the sheets beside her already cool. The faint grey light of early morning filtered through the porthole, and she could feel the shift of the deck beneath her, the subtle adjustment of the hull as it caught a different current. They were in the bay now. She could taste it in the air, the mineral salt of open water giving way to something greener, more sheltered.

The bell rang again, closer.

Elena swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving more carefully than she normally would. A pleasant soreness lingered through her body, most noticeable between her thighs and across her lower back, every ache a quiet reminder of how she'd spent the evening. She paused beside the bed, letting herself adjust to the tenderness, then pressed a palm against her stomach and drew a slow breath. Even now, she could almost feel the warmth of Liam's hands at her hips.

Then she crossed to her bag and pulled out a pair of jeans and a soft grey sweater. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, then crossed to the small mirror near the cabin door and tried to tame her hair with her fingers. She didn't want to see the evidence of last night written on her face—the flush, the softened eyes, the mouth that still felt shaped by his.

The bell rang again, and she climbed the companionway stairs.

The air hit her first, cool enough to raise gooseflesh along her arms. It smelled different. Smelling of pine and damp earth, with the faint sweetness of flowers carried down from the hills. Elena drew a slow breath and felt the last heaviness of sleep leave her lungs.

The bay of Las Lona opened around them, wide and still beneath the low morning sky, its deep green surface broken only by the gentle wake of the Briar Rose. Hills climbed on either side, thick with trees, with the occasional roof or stone house appearing between the branches. Some were large enough that Elena knew they had to be expensive, but from the water they barely looked lived in.

Liam stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching up to pull a line. He was back in his white shirt that stopped at his elbows, the sleeves clinging to his forearms. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his black hair still damp from a wash, and he looked—she had to stop and look at him, had to let herself have this moment of just watching—he looked like he belonged here. On the water. At the edge of the world he'd built.

He glanced over his shoulder as she came up, and something in his face softened. Just a fraction. Just for a second.

"Good morning."

"Morning." Her voice came out rougher than she expected, and she cleared her throat. "Are we back?"

"Yes, we’re almost at the Manor." He turned back to the water, guiding the boat around a channel marker.

She moved to the bow, leaning against the railing as the wind caught her hair. The hills rolled past—green and gold in the morning light, dotted with the occasional flash of a window or a roofline. It was beautiful in a way that felt almost staged, like a postcard someone had left out too long, the colors slightly too saturated to be real.

Behind her, she heard Liam move across the deck. Lines ran through his hands as he worked the sails down, the canvas snapping once in the morning breeze before folding against the mast. Elena glanced back.

He looked unfairly good in the morning light, his hair still slightly disheveled, as he hauled the last line tight. She watched the movement of his shoulders for a second longer, the memory of those same hands on her body flashing through her mind.

The engine turned over behind him. Liam secured the lines, stepped back toward the helm, and throttled them forward. The Briar Rose settled into a low, steady hum as they continued toward Las Lona.

The wind pulled strands of hair across her face, and she tucked them behind her ears, watching the water slide past the hull. The bell had stopped ringing now that they were inside the bay, and the silence felt strange after so long with the sound. She found herself listening for it anyway.

The trees thinned as they rounded a curve, and then she saw it.

Thorn Manor rose from the hillside like something that had grown there, all grey stone and dark timber, its windows catching the morning light in a way that made them look like they were watching. Elena's stomach tightened.

For so long, she'd thought of that house as a prison. Walls she hadn't chosen, a place she'd been forced into because of a debt that wasn't even hers. At some point she'd counted the days there once and counted the doors, the windows, looking for ways out.

Now she was sailing back toward it beside the man who had put her there.

And somehow, that wasn't the only thing she felt.

There was something else in her chest when she looked at him. Something warm. Something she still wasn't entirely comfortable admitting, even to herself, even though she let the words slip out last night.

She loved him.

The realization felt strange against the memory of those first days in that house. How could the same man who had made Thorn Manor feel like a prison also be the man she now couldn't imagine leaving?

It was larger than she remembered. Or maybe she just hadn't been paying attention the first time, too caught up in the storm and the strangeness of arriving at a stranger's house to notice the sheer scale of the place. The dock stretched out into the water ahead of them, a long wooden finger pointing into the bay, and at the end of it stood a figure.

Tall. Broad. Very still.

Elena's stomach tightened as she recognized his shape. Victor.

Liam throttled down as they approached, the engine dropping to a low burble as he guided the boat alongside the dock. Victor didn't move as they came in. He stood with his hands at his sides, his shoulders squared, his face set in an expression that made Elena's chest go cold.

Something was wrong.

Liam threw a line, and Victor caught it, pulling them in with practiced ease. He tied them off without a word, then straightened and looked up at Liam with a seriousness that had nothing to do with greeting them home.

"Sir."

Liam's jaw tightened. He killed the engine and stepped off the boat onto the dock, his shoes landing softly on the wood. "What is it?"

Victor glanced at Elena, then back at Liam. A silent question. Are we doing this here?

Liam's eyes flicked to her, and something passed between them—a communication she couldn't read, a decision made in the space of a heartbeat. Then he turned to her.

"Go inside. Put your things away."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a command, exactly. It was just the way he spoke, the way he expected to be obeyed, and she found herself nodding before she'd even thought about it.

"Okay."

She grabbed her bag from where she'd left it by the cabin door and went back up to the dock. The wood was cool under her bare feet—she'd forgotten to put on shoes, and she could feel the grain of it, the roughness, the faint give of the planks. Victor stepped aside to let her pass, and she caught his eye for just a moment. There was something in his face that made her want to stop, to ask what was wrong, but Liam was already speaking, his voice low and even, and she knew she wasn't meant to hear it.

She walked up the dock, her bare feet padding soft against the wood, and did not look back.

The path from the dock wound up through the garden, past hedges and flower beds that were just beginning to wake from the night. The grass was wet with dew, and she could feel it soaking through the hem of her jeans as she walked. The manor loomed ahead of her, larger with every step, and by the time she reached the back door, she was breathing harder than the walk warranted.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.

Marta looked up from the counter where she was slicing fruit, and her face broke into a smile so bright it made Elena's chest ache.

"Elena! You're back!"

Marta crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and pulled her into a hug. She smelled like cinnamon and something sweet, and Elena found herself hugging back harder than she meant to, her face pressed into the older woman's shoulder.

"How was the trip?" Marta pulled back, holding her at arm's length, her eyes scanning Elena's face. "You look—you look different."

Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It was good. Better than I expected, actually."

“Let me guess,” Marta said. “Liam’s still giving orders like the world will fall apart if someone ignores him?”

Elena laughed, the sound surprising her. “We saw a reef.” The memory came back so vividly that her smile lingered. “It was…” She paused, searching for words that seemed suddenly too small. “It was beautiful, Marta. The coral was everywhere, and the fish were just…” She shook her head, still seeing flashes of color moving through the clear blue water. “I've never seen anything like it.”

She didn't mention the almost drowning. Didn't mention the hose snagging on the coral, the water filling her lungs, the cold darkness closing in. Didn't mention waking up in his shirt, his hand in hers, the way he'd looked at her like she was something he couldn't bear to lose.

She kept the rest to herself. There was no reason to make Marta worry about a few minutes of trouble in the water. The snagged hose, the panic, the moment she'd thought she wasn't going to make it back to the surface—all of ithat she wanted to stay on the island.

"A reef," Marta repeated, her smile softening. "That sounds lovely, dear. I'm glad you got to see something so special." She squeezed Elena's hands, then released her and turned back to the counter. "Now—what would you like for dinner? If the master doesn't command otherwise, of course."

Elena considered. "Pasta?"

“Pasta.” Marta nodded. “I’ll make it happen. You go get settled. You look like you could use a shower and a proper bed.” She pointed toward the counter. “And take something with you for breakfast. I have some fruit, bread, and coffee ready. No skipping meals just because you’ve been away.”

Elena thanked her and slipped out of the kitchen with food in hand, her bare feet silent on the stone floor as she made her way through the manor. The halls were quiet, the morning light slanting through the tall windows in long golden bars. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down the corridor to her room, the door already open as if someone had expected her.

Her room was exactly as she'd left it. The bed made, the curtains drawn back, the bay glittering beyond the glass. She set her bag on the chair and crossed to the window, pressing her palm flat against the cool glass as she looked out at the water.

From here, she could see only the open stretch of the bay beyond the manor's lower deck. The dock and the small strip of beach below were hidden from view, blocked by the roofline and the trees along the slope.

She knew Liam and Victor were down there somewhere. She'd seen them step onto the dock before she'd come inside, their conversation already serious. Now there was nothing to see but the water moving beneath the morning light.

Elena stayed at the window for another moment, wondering what had changed the instant they'd returned. Something had happened while they were gone. She just didn't know what yet.

She turned away from the window and pulled out her phone, checking the messages she'd missed. There were several from Lisa, the most recent one with a string of emojis that seemed to be asking a question she couldn't quite parse.

Lisa: Are you back yet?? I want to visit. I miss you. Can I come to the keep?

Elena smiled, the first real smile she'd felt since stepping off the boat. She typed back a quick response—Elena: Just got in. I’ll ask Liam—and hit send. Then she set the phone down and looked around the room, at the carefully made bed, the neat stack of books on the nightstand, the space that was hers and yet didn't quite feel like home.

She thought about the card in her bag. Sebastian Hart's card, with its embossed letters and the promise of something she hadn't decided she wanted. She thought about Alexander's warning, the words he'd spoken so casually, so sure of himself. She thought about the notebook pages on her phone, the coded names and shipping routes she still hadn't fully deciphered.

And she thought about Liam. The way he'd held her last night. The way he'd pulled her closer instead of saying the words she'd offered him. The way he'd looked at her this morning, like she was something he was still trying to figure out how to keep.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed her hands between her knees, staring at the floor.

Ding. Ding.

The phone buzzed against the nightstand, pulling her out of the spiral. Lisa's reply came through in a rapid-fire burst of messages.

Lisa: OMG you're actually back!! You still need to check with him first?

Elena rolled her eyes, already smiling.

Elena: It’s his house, Lisa.

Lisa: Fine. Ask him. But I'm coming if he says yes.

Elena shook her head, the smile still lingering as she slipped her phone back into her pocket.

Elena set the phone down and stood. The room felt too quiet all of a sudden, filled with all the things she wasn't saying.

She crossed to the window again and rested her palm against the glass. Beyond it, the bay stretched peacefully beneath the morning light, but the dock remained hidden behind the broad deck below. Somewhere down there were Liam and Victor, still talking.

She wondered what had kept them there.

Something had changed while they were gone. She'd seen it in Liam the moment they reached the dock—the way his expression hardened, the way his attention shifted completely to whatever Victor had to tell him. She didn't know what had happened, but she knew it was serious.

She turned away from the window and caught sight of her bag on the chair. The zipper had unzipped a little from the walk, and the corner of the leather journal peeked out from between folded clothes—Amara Thorn's journal, the one she'd taken from the cottage without asking. She crossed the room and pulled it out, the worn leather warm in her hands, and sat down on the edge of the bed with it open in her lap.

She'd only read a few pages so far. The early entries were the hardest—the ones where Amara wrote about her son as a boy, before the world had gotten its hands on him. Before the hardening. Before the grief that had shaped him into the man who stood on the dock right now, his shoulders squared against whatever bad news Victor had brought.

Elena ran her thumb along the edge of the page, feeling the texture of the paper, the faint warp of old ink. She didn't open it. She just held it, the weight of it solid in her hands, and thought about the woman who had written these words. The woman who had believed, against all evidence, that her son was still good.

A knock at the door made her jump. She shoved the journal back into her bag, her heart hammering, and called out, "Come in."

The door opened to Presley's quiet figure, his tailcoat immaculate as ever. He inclined his head, hands folded before him.

"Miss Rossi. I trust you found the manor comfortable upon your return?"

Elena's heart was still hammering from shoving the journal away, but she managed a smile. "Yes, thank you, Presley. It's good to be back."

"Is there anything you require? Tea, perhaps, or something from the kitchen?"

She hesitated, the question forming before she could stop it. "Actually—could you ask Mr. Thorn if my friend Lisa can visit? She's been wanting to see me."

Presley's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture loosened, almost imperceptibly. “Mr. Thorn has already advised that Miss Chen is welcome here at any time, Miss Rossi. You need only let me know when she arrives.”

Elena blinked. "He—already said that?"

“He mentioned it before your departure, yes. Should Miss Chen wish to stay, she is welcome to use your room as she did before. I’ll see that anything she requires is arranged.”

Elena nodded, a small warmth settling in her chest. “Thank you, Presley. She’ll be coming tomorrow. She said she’s finishing a job outside town tonight and will drive up in the morning.”

The butler inclined his head. “I’ll make sure everything is prepared for her.”

“Thank you. That’s—that’s very kind.”

“Will there be anything else, Miss Rossi?”

"No. That's all."

He turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him, and Elena stood alone in the quiet room with the journal still half-hidden in her bag.

She pulled out her phone and typed quickly.

He said yes. You can come.

Lisa's reply came in under a minute.

YESSS! I'll be there in the morning!! I'm finishing up a job just outside town—will drive up tonight.

Elena smiled down at the screen, feeling some of the tension in her chest ease. She typed back, Drive safe, then set the phone on the nightstand.

She set the journal aside long enough to unpack the rest of her bag, pulling out the clothes she'd worn and her swimsuit and placing them into the clothes hamper. She knew the maids would have everything washed, dried, and returned before she had a chance to miss it; somehow, laundry seemed to disappear the moment it hit the hamper in this house.

She ate from the tray of breakfast on the vanity while she'd been on the phone—fresh fruit, a pastry, coffee still steaming, the sweetness of the pastry doing little to quiet the hum in her head.

When the bag was empty, she hesitated. Her fingers brushed the journal's worn leather again, and then, without letting herself think too hard, she tucked it back into the bottom of the bag, beneath the folded sweater she hadn't worn since the island. It wasn't a good hiding spot. But it was the only one she had right now.

"You're going to have to come out eventually," she murmured to the bag, as if it might answer. It didn't, of course. It just sat there, patient and heavy with secrets that weren't hers to know.

The shower called to her. After more than a day on the water, she wanted to wash away the salt and sea spray that still clung to her skin and hair, along with the lingering feel of the boat beneath her feet. She stripped quickly, leaving her clothes in a heap by the door, and stepped beneath the hot water. It ran over her shoulders, loosening muscles she hadn't realized were tight, and she let herself stand there for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the last traces of the sea wash away as the noise of the manor faded around her.

When she finally opened her eyes, the mirror was fogged, her reflection little more than a ghost in the glass. She stayed beneath the water a little longer than she needed to, letting it wash away the salt, the soreness, and the questions she'd been carrying since they returned. Eventually, she turned off the tap and reached for a towel.

The warmth faded quickly as she dried herself and stepped back into the room. Her eyes settled on the bag where Amara's journal lay hidden, and the small smile she'd been wearing disappeared.

She pulled it free and held it for a moment, her thumb brushing over the worn leather. She'd taken it from the cottage without asking, telling herself it was only curiosity. But now that she was back at the manor, it felt different—as if she were holding something that belonged to a part of Liam's life he had never chosen to share with her.

She needed somewhere to hide it.

Her thoughts went to the library. The manor had a room full of books she'd barely touched, rows and rows of them gathered by generations of Thorns. A book hidden among books. It was almost too simple.

She slipped the journal into the back waistband of her jeans, pulled her sweater down over it, and checked the hallway before stepping out. The corridor was empty, the afternoon light falling in long amber bars across the floor. She walked quickly, her bare feet silent on the stone, and turned down the east wing where the library sat behind tall oak doors.

The room opened around her, shelves rising high enough that a rolling library ladder stood between the rows, their wooden steps worn smooth from years of use. The smell of old paper and leather polish hung thick in the air. She moved past the reading table and the lounge chair, heading for the far corner where the shelves were dusty with books that no one had probably touched in a decade.

She found a section devoted to art history and ran her fingers along the spines until one caught her attention: a heavy volume on Renaissance painting, filled with reproductions and notes on technique and restoration.

She pulled it free, then glanced around before slipping Amara's journal into the space behind it. The journal disappeared neatly between the backboard and books in front. She replaced the art book, making sure the spine sat flush with the others, then carried another volume with her.

That way, if anyone noticed her leaving the library, she had a perfectly good reason for being there.

And she had a reason to come back. She walked back to her room, the history book tucked under her arm.

The afternoon slipped by while Elena sat near the window with her charcoal set spread across the table. She started with the usual things—the curve of the bay, the trees along the hillside, the rough outline of the manor's lower deck—but eventually her attention drifted to the empty space on the page.

Without really meaning to, Elena’s pencil drifted across the page and began to form Liam’s face. It started as nothing more than loose, uncertain lines—an instinct rather than a decision—and only after a few moments did she realize what she was doing. His jaw took shape first, then the slope of his shoulders, and the way his hair had fallen across his forehead that morning, still damp from the sea spray. She hesitated, erased a line with her thumb, and tried again, as if she could somehow catch the exact expression he’d worn at the helm if she just got it right this time.

Before she knew it, she had turned the page and pressed harder into the charcoal, the strokes growing darker and more certain. His hands appeared next, then the crease between his brows when he was thinking, and finally that slight, almost private tilt of his mouth whenever he looked at her. It wasn’t until she paused, pencil hovering, that she fully realized she hadn’t been drawing anything in front of her for a while now—she had been drawing him from memory.

Her stomach growled, sharp and insistent.

She glanced toward the clock and realized she'd missed most of the afternoon.

Elena gathered her charcoal and pages, leaving the unfinished sketch on the table, and made her way down the grand staircase, the stone cool beneath her bare feet. The smell of garlic and tomatoes drifted up from the kitchen, drawing her toward dinner.

The dining room was set for one. A single place at the head of the long mahogany table, the silver gleaming under the chandelier's warm light. A bowl of pasta sat steaming in the center, the sauce a deep rust red, flecked with basil and what smelled like slow-cooked pork. Marta had outdone herself. Elena stood in the doorway for a moment, the empty chairs stretching out on either side like a silent audience, and felt the weight of the room press against her chest.

"Where's Mr. Thorn?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.

Presley materialized from the shadows near the sideboard, his hands folded before him. "Mr. Thorn sends his apologies. He's been detained by business and asks that you dine without him."

“Detained?” Elena repeated, the word catching in her throat. She pulled out the chair and sat, settling the linen napkin across her lap. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

"He did not, Miss Rossi."

Marta had made the pasta Elena asked for, tossed with rich tomato sauce and basil, with a small salad and warm bread on the side. Elena lifted her fork, twirled a strand around the tines, and brought it to her mouth. It was exactly what she'd wanted—simple, warm, familiar. She chewed slowly and took another bite, but the quiet around her made it difficult to relax. Every scrape of her fork against the porcelain seemed to echo through the high-ceilinged room, and she found herself listening past it for footsteps, a door, a voice—anything that might tell her where Liam was.

She ate slowly, but her attention kept drifting toward the empty chair across the table. Every sound in the quiet dining room made her glance up: footsteps somewhere beyond the walls, a door closing, the faint movement of the old house settling around her.

She finished the last of the pasta and set her fork down. The candle flames flickered in the draft, throwing restless shadows across the table.

Liam should have been here.

The thought came with a strange weight she hadn't expected.

She looked toward the doorway, wondering where he was and what could possibly have kept him away.