“What's the name of his boat?”

I'm running across the parking lot of the marina, the phone pressed to my ear. I can hear the clack of keys on a computer on the other end of the line as Ava searches for me.

“Come on, come on,” I press.

“Right,” she says. “It's called the Pacific Queen.”

“Great. Thanks,” I say and disconnect the call.

I drop the phone in my pocket and pull open the door to the Harbor Master's office. I step to the counter and start dinging the bell over and over. A grizzled older man with greasy dark hair, and a sallow complexion, finally steps out of the back office, a sleepy, but irritated look in his eye. He very pointedly pushes the bell out of my reach.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“The Pacific Queen,” I say. “I need to know where it's docked. And I need to know now.”

“Carlyle Hawkins' boat?” he asks. “Why do you need to know that?”

“Berth number,” I say. “Where is it?”

“Listen, mister, he doesn't usually allow visitors, and I can't give out that kind of personal information,” he says. “Now, if there was some incentive to be hand, maybe we could –”

My movements fast and sharp, I reach across the desk, grab the smaller man by the front of his shirt, and drag him over to my side, pulling him completely over the counter. I step closer to him – looming over him by a good five inches and outweighing him by at least sixty pounds of pure muscle.

The man looks up at me, eyes wide, and swallows hard. He smells like stale cigarettes and piss. He's disgusting, and the sooner I can be away from him, the better.

“Here's your incentive,” I say. “Tell me where the Pacific Queen is berthed, and I won't beat the shit out of you. Keep fucking with me, and I'll beat you within an inch of your life. I may even beat you to death. You got that? Hawkins' berth number. Now.”

The man is trembling in my grasp, and when I look down, I see the front of his pants growing wet. He's pissing himself. Literally. Not releasing my grip on him, I still take a step back, trying to avoid getting piss on my shoe. The stench, however, is quickly becoming unbearable.

“Last chance,” I say. “Berth number.”

“T – t – two thirty-three Bravo Delta Charlie,” he stutters. “Berth two thirty-three BDC.”

I let go of him and turn, as eager to get out to Hawkins' boat as I am to forget about this ratface’s existence.

It takes a minute, but I find the right berth. When I see it still moored there, I let out a long breath of relief. I've been scared this whole time that I'd get there only to find it gone. Out at sea already. I know that if the ship leaves the dock, Emma is a dead woman.

The Pacific Queen is moored alone, out on the end of a long dock that only has room to fit one boat at a time. Well, only one at a time because of the size of the Queen. She's a big yacht and takes up a lot of space. And it works to Hawkins' advantage to be moored out there alone – not only are there no neighbors who could hear a woman scream, but he can sit up on the bridge and see who's approaching the ship. He could be up there eyeballing me right now, in fact.

But, I'm not here to be subtle. I'm here to save my girl. And I'll do it by any means necessary. I race down the gangway and up the dock toward the boat. I can hear the engines rumbling as it warms up, telling me I did get here just in the nick of time. At least something's going my way tonight.

As I approach, the rumble of the engines grows louder, but as I stare at the bridge, don’t see anyone up top. Which means that Hawkins – and Emma – are down below. All I can hope is that I got to this son of a bitch's floating murder house in time.

I climb the short ladder, step over the gunwale, and drop down onto the deck with a hollow thud. I look one way and then the other, unsure which way I should go. I know he must be keeping her below decks somewhere, so I find the nearest door, and pull it open.

I find myself in a lounge area. It's furnished in dark wood paneling, has a bar along one wall, and a lot of seating. On the far side of the room, I can see a staircase that leads down. Exactly what I need. I head for the staircase, and as I turn the corner and am about to step down, I see Hawkins on the deck below me, looking up. There's a fury in his eyes, and he raises his right arm. It's only then I notice the gun in his hand.

“Shit,” I growl.

I dive to the side just as I hear the roar of the handgun. From the corner of my eye, I see the bullet tear a hole into the wood paneling of the ceiling, sending wood chips flying everywhere. I quickly get to my feet as I hear Hawkins' footsteps thumping up the stairwell. I look around frantically, searching for anything to use as a weapon, and come up empty.

“You can still walk away from this,” Hawkins calls to me. “Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“You need to be hurt.”

I grab a chair that's near at hand and fling it at the retaining wall around the stairwell he's behind, as hard as I can. It crashes into it, sending splinters and pieces of wood flying. Hawkins grunts then his gun discharges, and I hear the bullet whine off metal.

“Dammit,” he curses.

A moment later, I hear the clatter and clang of something hitting the deck below, and I'm gambling that it's the gun. He dropped it when the chair exploded off the wall. This is my chance.

Moving quickly, I round the corner and find Hawkins a few steps below, waiting for me. He lunges at me with a large hunting knife in his hand. I growl when the point of his blade pierces my arm, his momentum driving it in deep. The pain in my arm burns bright, but I still have the high ground, and that gives me an advantage.

Raising my foot, I piston it out and it catches him square in the face. He lets go of the knife handle and goes tumbling ass over tea kettle down the flight of stairs. He hits the bottom deck, his head slamming against the wall, sending a dull steel ring, like the gong of a Buddhist temple bell, echoing through the lower deck. Gritting my teeth, I grip the handle of the knife and pull it out of my arm. I feel the warm, sticky flow of blood rush out immediately. I need to stop the bleeding immediately.

My arm is throbbing, and the pain is fierce, even with the adrenaline and testosterone raging through my veins. I need to keep going, though. Outside, I hear the faint sound of sirens. I think. It sounds like they're drawing closer, but part of me is wondering if I'm imagining it. Doesn't matter.

I descend the stairs quickly. Hawkins is sprawled out on the deck, unconscious. There's a gash on the back of his head from where he hit the wall, and the back of his neck is bloody, but I can see his chest rising and falling. He's breathing, so I know he's not dead. Unfortunately. It would make things a lot easier if he was.

“Emma,” I call out.

I wait for a moment and hear nothing over the rumble of the engine. I walk down the hallway to the right of me. There are several doors on the left side of the corridor – probably staterooms, I'd imagine.

“Emma,” I call again, this time louder.

I strain my ears to listen, and think I hear something. It's faint, but it sounds like a voice. Emma's voice. Hope in my chest, I run down the corridor, opening the doors as I go – all empty. At the end of the hall, I practically crash through the door and find Emma sitting on the edge of a bunk. She's got a couple of nasty looking bruises on her face, she's bound by ropes, and there's a thin trail of blood leaking from her nose.

But, she's alive.

The moment she sees me, she bursts into hysterical sobs. I run to her, pulling her body to me. I hold her close, stroking her hair, and plastering her face with kisses. My heart is beating so hard in my chest, it hurts. I've never felt relief this strong before in my entire life. She's alive. Thank god. She’s alive.

“You're hurt,” she says, touching my arm after I untie her.

“It's nothing.”

She looks into my eyes, her cheeks red and wet with tears, her lower lip trembling wildly. I put my hand softly against her cheek, and she leans into it.

“He hurt you,” I say softly.

She shakes her head. “I'm okay,” she says. “It's nothing.”

“That's my girl,” I say and place a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Tough as iron.”

“You came for me.”

“I told you I'd always come for you,” I say softly. “I always will. I'll always protect you. You're mine. And I’m yours.”

She leans into me, her body racked with sobs. Overhead, we hear feet pounding onto the deck of the yacht. The police, probably. We just sit and wait for them to come, holding on to each other. Holding tight. Never wanting to let go.

We're sitting in a bay in the emergency room, after having been checked out by what seems like a dozen different doctors over the last four hours. We're laying back on the bed, Emma curled up beside me, her head on my chest while I absently stroke her hair.

We've laid like that, in perfect silence, for I don’t even know how long. There are no words right now. We're simply taking comfort in the fact that the two of us are alive. That we're safe. Together.

One of the nurses gave me some ibuprofen to cut down the pain of the stab wound, before they stitched and bandaged me up. There's a dull, throbbing ache I suspect will be with me for a while, but I'll deal with it. I'd take a hundred wounds like that if it meant saving Emma. A thousand.

She's all that matters. My entire world. When I thought I might lose her, something inside of me snapped. I've patched myself together with wire and duct tape for so many years in a sad attempt at holding the darkness inside at bay, that I didn't realize I could actually heal.

Not until Emma.

She's healing those torn, broken pieces inside of me. She makes me whole. With her, I know I can find that peace Pete is always talking about. I can find that sense of happiness and completeness. I honestly didn't think it was possible for me until she waltzed back into my life. Somehow, she's managed to take those shattered pieces inside of me and has made them whole again.

A tall, thin Asian man – the doctor who's been tending to us – pushes through the curtain, making sure to slide it closed behind him. Emma and I both sit up.

“Good news,” he says. “Mr. Kelly, the blade missed anything important. You may have a bit of a scar, and it's going to hurt for a little while, but you'll make a full recovery.”

I nod. “Good to hear.”

“And Ms. Simmonds, your wounds are superficial,” he says. “The bruises will fade in time, and you should be perfectly fine.”

A soft smile touches her face as she looks at me. Emma takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. We're both going to be okay. Better than okay. And we can tackle this next chapter of our lives. Together.

“Also,” the doctor goes on, as he consults his chart. “The baby is fine. The chloroform Mr. Hawkins used on the rag –”

I feel my eyes grow wide at the same moment my mouth goes completely dry. I turn to Emma and see the exact same expression on her face.

“Excuse me,” I choke, cutting him off. “The baby?”

The doctor looks up from his chart and blanches when he sees the startled, confused expressions on our faces. He looks at Emma, and then at me, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to speak but can't quite seem to find the words.

“Umm... this is awkward,” he says.

“I – I'm pregnant?” Emma asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The doctor clears his throat. “I – I'm sorry,” he says. “I thought you knew already.”

“You're pregnant?” I ask. “But, we've been so careful.”

She nods. “I know, I – I don't know how this happened,” she says, then turns back to the doctor. “Are you sure?”

“We ran the blood test twice, just as a precaution, and yes, you're very much pregnant. About a month along now,” he says. “I'm sorry to break the news to you like this. I honestly didn't know.”

“It's okay,” I say, trying to absorb the body blow the news just delivered. “Pregnant.”

The doctor stands there looking uncomfortable, and like he wants to be anywhere but there at that moment. I give him a tight smile.

“Thank you, doctor,” I say.

He nods, and practically sprints away from us, the curtain flapping in the wind he generates on his way out. I turn to Emma and find her looking at me with wide eyes, brimming with tears.

“I – I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't know.”

I pull her to me, holding onto her tightly. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say. “Don't apologize.”

She rests her head against my chest, letting me stroke her hair, and soothe her. We sit in silence for a long time as each of us absorb the news. This is the last thing I expected to hear tonight.

Slowly, Emma sits up and turns to face me.

“What are we going to do?” she asks softly.

I look into her eyes and feel the most powerful connection to another person, and the most profound sense of love, I've ever experienced. It's overwhelming. I take her trembling hands and raise them to my lips, planting soft kisses on each of her knuckles. Emma is the most beautiful woman in the world to me. The only woman I love. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.

“Seriously, Brice. What are we going to do?”

“I guess we're going to have a baby.”

Her mouth falls open, and she looks at me like I suddenly sprouted a second head. I don't know exactly what's going on inside that head of hers, but I know the idea appeals to her, at least on some level. She’s talked about wanting to be a mother before. Wanting to raise a family. She's driven to excel in her career, but Emma is the kind of person who can do both – be successful in her own right and raise a family.

The idea of having a child is something that's been more and more prevalent in my mind lately. Ever since Emma came into my life, and I started to think about the future and building a legacy my child could take over when I'm done.

Clearly, this is the universe nudging me along in that direction.

“Is that practical?” she asks. “I mean, considering that we're both basically getting started in our careers, and –”

I put my finger to her lips, cutting her off. I give her a smile and gently kiss the tip of her nose.

“Do you love me?” I ask.

“Of course, I do.”

“Because I love you. With everything in me,” I say. “I want to be with you. Forever. I want to raise a family with you. I want to build something that our kids can continue. And their kids. I want to build that with you, Emma Simmonds.”

“A – are you asking me...”

Her voice trails off, but I know where she's going with that thought. This isn't at all how I ever pictured asking the question – though, I've never actually pictured myself asking the question to begin with.

Ideal circumstances be damned, this still feels right. The mere thought of spending the rest of my life with Emma fills me with joy.

I nod and give her a smile. “Yes, I am,” I say. “I want to marry you, Emma. Though, I do request that I officially ask you when we're in a better situation. This is not how romance should be.”

She throws her arms around me and plants a kiss on my lips, as she squeezes me tight. Tears of joy roll down her face, and her smile lights up the room. It's a smile I want to wake up to every morning and see before I go to bed every night.

Yeah, this absolutely feels right.

“The romance level is good,” she says. “Romance level ten.”

I shake my head. “Bullshit,” I say and laugh. “I'm going to ask you again when the romance really is at level ten. And you better act surprised.”

We hold on to each other and laugh for a long while, and all I can think is that yeah, this is exactly how I want my life to be. Holding onto the woman I love, laughing like an idiot, and being deeply, ridiculously in love.

I wasn't expecting it. I wasn't looking for it. In fact, I was actively trying to avoid it. But, you can't escape fate. When it's right, it's right. And this is serendipity.

“I love you, Emma Simmonds.”

“And I love you, Brice Kelly.”

I never knew life could be so wonderful. Never knew it could be so perfect. I guess you can teach an old dog a few new tricks after all.