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Yuri’s at the back table of the coffee shop on the wharf. It’s mine, on paper under some other man’s name. So is the restaurant next door. And the hotel across the street. And the marina, and two of the boats in it, and half the parking lots between here and Capitola.

The chief of police is at the next table, eating a scone. He nods at me when I walk in. I don’t nod back.

“So,” Yuri says. “She’s here.”

“She’s here.”

“Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

He nods and pulls out his phone. “Florist wants to know white or red.”

“Red.”

“Priest…”

“Her mama’s bringing her pastor.”

Yuri doesn’t blink. He types it in. “Gleb’ll find him a room.” He sips his coffee. “Who’s walking her?”

“Her mama walks her halfway. You walk her the rest.”

“Fine.” He puts his phone down and picks up his fork. “Does she know?”

I drink my coffee.

Yuri shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

* * *

When I get back, she’s up.

She’s standing at the window in nothing but my T-shirt. The fog’s burning off. The water’s showing through in pieces, blue and gray and white where it breaks on the rocks.

She’s got her left hand up in front of her face.

She’s not looking at the ocean. She’s looking at that ring.

She hears me come in. She doesn’t turn around.

Her braids are a mess down her back. My shirt’s hanging off one shoulder, and the curve of her ass is just showing under the hem. Her bare feet on my floor. Her bare legs. My bite on the back of her thigh.

My woman. In my house. In my shirt. With my ring on her hand.

My cock’s so hard I can feel my heartbeat in it.

“Sasha,” she says to the window. Real quiet.

“What.”

She turns around. Holds her hand up between us, that diamond flashing.

“What is this?”

Ten

Dylan