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“I see,” I said.

The pain stretched heavy and thick between us, the kind of pain that didn’t ever entirely go away.

“Well, now you’re free,” I said quietly. “You could go look for her.”

“No, oh no,” Hugo said quickly. “She got married, I believe. To a very nice man. Best thing that could have happened to her, of course. There’s only trouble and ruin to be found with the Bastides.”

I knew that was damn true.

“And how does Ciel like being on the water?” he asked, changing the topic.

I laughed, one hand on the wheel and the other on my belly, where I could feel my baby in there kicking and wriggling around.

“He loves it.”

I took a long drink of water and shook my hair out in the breeze. “Want to have some more of these apple hand pies? They’re delicious.”

But there was a frown line between Hugo’s brows.

“Looks like there’s another boat on the lake. This place is so out of the way, I wonder if they’ve gotten turned around. And it looks like we’re in their direct path, so let’s go to the east a bit, let them pass us by so they can turn around.”

I obeyed him, but I glanced up to see the boat still headed toward us. Even as we cut to the east, so did they.

“Shit,” Hugo said, squinting. “They’re coming in hot. Let’s get back to the dock.”

And I think I felt it on the back of my neck first. Cold goosebumps rising on my skin, terror crawling down my spine.

I didn’t even let myself look closer at the other boat, skimming straight over the waves. Right at us.

The other boat driver was going too fast, too reckless.

“Let’s go, Léonie. Hurry.”

I jammed the throttle down and headed back for the dock.

But the other boat was catching up quickly.

“Fuck,” Hugo hissed under his breath. And I knew he had seen what I had instinctively known with every crawling cell of my body.

Someone was chasing, hunting us down, with mathematical precision.

I pulled power to our engines, but the other boat did too.

I pulled to the east, veered away.

They veered too.

And they were going faster, creeping up on us second by second until—the boat drew even with us, and he must be pushing that engine way past what was safe as he shot in front. . .

He was right in my line of vision now, right between me and safety, so I couldn’t avoid seeing him.

My husband.

Étienne was wearing a white shirt, rolled up over powerful forearms, the buttons undone down to his chest, the white stark against his tanned skin, his strong hands twisting the steering wheel—and our eyes met.

“Slow down, Léonie!” he called out, the spray splashing over him, soaking the shirt to his chest.

But he wasn’t that man anymore.