Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Neither am I. But we’ll figure it out.” Her eyes started to droop, the medication pulling her toward sleep. “Together.”
“Together,” Brooks agreed.
He sat with her as she drifted off, her hand still holding his. When her breathing deepened and her grip relaxed, he carefully extracted his hand and settled back in the chair. He should go home, shower, change clothes, maybe catch an hour of sleep before dawn. But he stayed.
Through the window, the lighthouse was visible in the distance, dark against the pre-dawn sky. No beacon. No light. Just stone standing against the ocean.
How many secrets had that structure held? How many lives had it touched across generations? Mathilde helping design it. Lily dying in it. Winston using it to build his empire. And Vivienne, who’d nearly died there tonight but had instead helped bring it peace.
Brooks pulled out his phone and typed a message to Agent Porter: At hospital with Vivienne. Will need to give full statement in the morning. Winston secure?
The response came immediately: Winston in custody, being treated under guard. Full debrief at 0900. Get some rest, Detective.
Brooks set the phone aside. Rest. Right. As if his mind would let him sleep after tonight.
He thought about the moment Winston’s gun had been at Vivienne’s head. The ice that had formed in his gut, the absolute certainty that he couldn’t lose her. Not just because she was a witness or consultant. Because she’d become important in a way he hadn’t let anyone be important since Traci died.
Dangerous territory. Getting emotionally involved with someone you worked with never ended well. But then again, nothing about this case had followed normal patterns. Why should his feelings?
Feelings. Brooks rubbed his face. When had he started having feelings beyond professional respect?
Probably the moment she’d looked at him in The Mystic Cup three weeks ago and somehow known he was a detective before he’d said a word. Or maybe in the tunnels when she’d trusted him to catch her after a vision nearly knocked her out. Or tonight, when she’d reached for him across impossible distance and he’d answered.
A soft sound pulled him from his thoughts. Vivienne had turned in her sleep, her face creasing with discomfort. Brooks stood, moving to adjust her pillow. Her eyes opened briefly.
“You’re still here.”
“Told you I wasn’t leaving.”
“Good.” She closed her eyes again. “Your hand. I can still feel it. Even when you’re not touching me.”
Brooks froze. “What do you mean?”
But she was already asleep again, her breathing evening out.
He returned to his chair, turning her words over in his mind. She could still feel his hand. Feel him, even when they weren’t physically connected.
The connection they’d forged tonight—it wasn’t fading. If anything, it was settling in, becoming part of how they related to each other. He could sense her presence in the room even with his eyes closed, could tell when she shifted from deep sleep to lighter dreaming.
This was either the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him, or he’d finally cracked under the pressure of too much trauma and not enough processing.
Knowing Vivienne, probably both.
Dawn crept through the windows, pale and watery. Brooks watched light touch Vivienne’s face, highlighting the bruise forming on her cheek, the bandage on her wrist, the exhaustion that even sleep couldn’t erase.
She’d saved them both tonight. Used every ounce of her gift to reach him, to coordinate their escape, to bring down Winston. And she’d paid a price for it—physical, mental, spiritual. He could see the toll in every line of her body.
“I won’t let anything happen to you again,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if that makes me overprotective or if it violates every professional boundary I’m supposed to maintain. I’m done pretending this is just a working relationship.”
Vivienne didn’t stir. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt warmth. Approval. Like she’d heard him even in sleep and was telling him she felt the same.
Brooks settled deeper into the uncomfortable chair and prepared to wait. Whatever came next—statements to the FBI, closing the case, dealing with the aftermath of Winston’s arrest—they’d face it together.
He’d come to Westerly Cove broken, looking for escape. Instead he’d found purpose. Found partnership. Found someone who saw him clearly and trusted him anyway.
Maybe that’s what Emmeline had seen in him twenty-three years ago. Not just his potential gift, but his potential to be what Vivienne needed. An anchor. A partner. Someone who could ground her when the voices grew too loud.
And maybe—probably—she was what he needed too. Someone who could remind him that his instincts were worth trusting. That he wasn’t broken beyond repair. That faith and logic didn’t have to be enemies.
His phone buzzed.
Chief Sullivan
Media’s got wind of Winston’s arrest. Story’s breaking. Prepare for reporters.
Brooks typed back:
Let Porter handle media. I’m staying with Vivienne.
Three dots appeared, then: