Chapter 220: Madeline
The institute’s boat is called Esperanza, and she’s a beauty—sleek lines, a wheelhouse that feels like a glass spine, a deck big enough to dance on. Bigger than the Vigil by a lot, which might explain why my twin shadows have been… crabby. Although, if I’m honest, they were unusually quiet even at breakfast. I keep replaying last night—three little words, twice over—and wondering if that’s what I’m seeing on their faces. Regret? Panic?
I asked. They said everything’s fine, just a little anxious about the team having less to do back in Northhaven. I tried to believe them. I almost do.
The captain gives us a tour and they light up despite themselves. Reid is all engine-room questions—fuel burn at different seas, redundancy on the gensets, how the bilge alarms route to the panel—while Jake zeroes in on storage systems and deployment: where the hydrophones live, how the lines are coiled, what lash points they use in weather. When the captain gets hailed to the bridge and leaves us alone for a minute, I nudge them, grinning. “Now you two look like nerds.”
They smirk in tandem. So I push it. I tip my head toward the wheelhouse and say, perfectly innocent, “You might have to step up your game. This captain has a much bigger boat, and women like big things.”
Both sets of eyes go dark. Jake’s mouth finds my ear first, voice low enough to live under my skin. “No other man can give you what we give you, Trouble.” Reid leans in from the other side, breath hot against my neck. “And it would be a shame to drop this captain off his own boat because we’re jealous, wouldn't it?”
I go still, every nerve alive; possessive shouldn’t feel this good, but God, on them it does.
The captain slips back into the wheelhouse like nothing happened. He glances over his shoulder, sun cutting his profile, and smiles at me. “Going to be a good day on the water.”
“It is,” I say, matching his smile, already tasting it—the salt, the luck, the way a sea turns soft when it’s ready to show you something.
Reid catches my eye as I step up beside him. One raised brow that says behave. I bite my lower lip and face forward, warmth pooling low and bright. I like him sweet. I like him steady. But when he goes dark and controlling?
I like that best of all.
The rest of the day unfolds like a promise kept.
Esperanza slides out past the breakwater and the captain gives me the helm long enough to lay in a clean survey track. We grid the cove edge with waypoints—where the current softens, where the shelf kicks up, where the wind shadow settles on a good day—building a rough ring of “if she’s going to calve anywhere, it’s here.” The institute takes the outer arc; Northhaven will sweep the inner cradle. Two nets, one miracle.
We get spouts—far off, silver-white and holy against the blue. A flurry at ten o’clock that hushes the deck, a single breath at our stern that smells faintly sweet, like warm kelp and thunder. I can’t stop grinning. Every time the air blows and hangs, my heart does the same.
Even the twins loosen. Reid’s shoulders drop by inches; he stands behind me, one hand braced to the console, asking the captain about fuel curves in weather like he’s just… a man on a boat again. Jake leans on the rail with the gear list in his pocket and nothing urgent to fix, tipping his face to the wind like he might actually let it kiss him. When I turn, they’re both looking at me—caught, softened, proud—and I feel bright enough to burn.
By late afternoon we’ve sketched the calving corridor: coordinates pinned, notes neat, day softening into that gentle gold that makes even serious men smile. We head in with a plan the institute can work and Northhaven can match, the sea at our backs and a good kind of tired in my bones. For once, the only thing echoing in my head is simple and salt-sweet:
We’re going to catch this birth. We’re going to be ready.
Back at the institute, it’s handshakes and smiles and that clean, humming afterglow of a day that did exactly what it was supposed to. I thank everyone twice; Dr. Sahni squeezes my hands and tells me she’ll email the patrol grid tonight. Reid and Jake shift into business mode—easy, polished—thanking the team for their hospitality, for the opportunity, for the contract and the collaboration and the trust. They look like they own the place and like they’re grateful to be invited in, somehow both.
We walk out with the sun sliding low, climb into the car, and the quiet feels heavier than the gear we didn’t carry. At the hotel I unlock the door and step into the familiar warm air, and the small, silly ache in my chest gets louder.
“I liked it,” I say, setting my tote down and toeing off my shoes. “Being with you. Living and sleeping together for a few days.”
They both look at me at once, as if they’ve been waiting for the words.
“We know,” Jake says, soft.
Reid nods, mouth tipping. “We liked it too.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t want to… stop.”
“We don’t either,” Jake answers, crossing to me. He crouches, hands braced on my knees, eyes warm. “We’re going to find a way for you to come live at our SWMRI house.”
Reid comes to stand behind him, palm settling on top of my hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, certain. “Because we don’t want to sleep without you either. You belong with us, baby.”
The ache loosens. I lean forward into Jake’s shoulder, hold Reid's hand a little tighter while his thumb runs circles on the back of mine, and let myself believe it—simple and impossible and exactly what I want.