Page 116 of The Anchor Holds

It was a cruel tease. To taste what it would be like to be another woman. One who could enjoy being in love with a man without threats lurking in the shadows, without skeletons in the closet, without destruction looming on the horizon.

“We haven’t,” I agreed. “I’ll put it down to being here with you rather than the ocean accepting me.”

I shivered as his low, throaty laugh hit my neck. “We’ll see,” he murmured.

I craned my head, trying to look at him. “‘We’ll see’ implies that there will be other opportunities for the ocean to hold my life in her hands.” The boat swayed quietly underneath us. “The agreement was for me to come out here once.” I held a finger up.

Elliot grinned before his lips met my neck. “We’ll see.”

When his hand slid to the waistband of my pants, dipping inside, my argument died on my tongue.

“I seem to remember promising to fuck you with you looking at the all-powerful ocean.” His fingers brushed against where I was already wet for him. “I’m a man of my word.”

I sank back against him as he toyed with me, my limbs loosening further.

He did as promised—fucked me bent over the boat, my screams of pleasure lost amongst the waves.

Afterward, we sat, talking about everything and nothing of import. As if we were normal. As if I were. As if we had a future.

It might’ve been the best day of my life.

Twenty-Two

Let it Be — The Beatles

With the reality of what was looming ahead of me remaining in the forefront of my mind, I never completely relaxed. I was also too lost in life, cosplaying as Elliot Shaw’s girlfriend. I spent time with his family, in his bed, intertwining our lives even further despite knowing I’d ruin everything.

Hence my nightly martinis.

I would’ve had the nightly martinis either way, granted, but I was drinking to drown my guilt instead of my sorrow.

I didn’t have any.

Sorrow.

Not while sitting in Elliot’s house, the windows open with the breeze blowing in, smelling of pine needles, tapping on my phone, returning emails while Elliot prepared to read after he’d cooked and done the dishes.

When Elliot clicked his tongue, I lifted my gaze from my phone to see his eyes scanning the room.

“What are you looking for?” I thought maybe I’d unwittingly left something important somewhere to make room for my laptop.

“My glasses.” A divot formed between his brows in a way I found both immensely sexy and adorable. “I could’ve sworn I left them on top of my book.”

I went stock-still, my fingers going numb around the stem of my martini glass. Normally, a man saying, “I could’ve sworn I left them here,” meant that he had no fucking clue where he left them and was looking for a woman to come find them because he was an overgrown child.

Not Elliot. He was not absent-minded. He didn’t just simply misplace things. Which was why my brain had registered the two other occasions he’d mentioned things not being where he put them.

Normal people brushed off such instances, because in a normal person’s life, you misplaced things. Again, not Elliot. If it had only happened once, I might’ve believed he’d been somewhere else in his mind. Twice was a stretch but enough to set off my alarm bells.

Three times confirmed a theory.

Russian spies used various techniques for their targets. To weaken their minds, to help make them more vulnerable.

One of those tactics was to routinely break into their targets’ houses then move around common objects to put them off-kilter.

I doubted Elliot had made it on the radar of any Russian spies. But I knew someone who’d studied every technique to unravel a person.

Jasper had been disturbingly quiet since he’d set the fire that almost killed Elliot.

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