Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary by the Sea
Three hundred miles north of Boston, in the quiet coastal town of Rockport, Maine, the air smelled of salt pine and fresh rain.
Harper stood on the wide wooden porch of a charming, slightly run-down Victorian house overlooking the harbor.
The house belonged to her late grandmother, a stubborn artist who had left the property to Harper three years ago. For years, Harper had kept the house locked up, believing she belonged in the busy, anonymous background of city life.
Now, surrounded by paint cans, brass fixtures, and soft wool blankets, she was breathing clean air for the first time in years.
"You're lifting with your back again, Harper!" a deep, jovial voice called out from the driveway.
Harper turned around, wiping a streak of white paint from her cheek with the back of her hand, and smiled.
Julian Vance stepped out of a vintage blue pickup truck, holding two heavy boxes of hardwood flooring planks.
Julian was thirty-four, six-foot-two, with broad shoulders, flour-dusted hands, and a warm, easy smile that made his golden-brown eyes crinkle at the corners. He was the owner of the local bakery and woodworking shop down near the docks, and since Harper had arrived two weeks ago, he had quietly shown up every afternoon to help her restore the old house.
"I built my own bookshelves, Julian," Harper laughed, stepping down the porch stairs to take one of the lighter boxes. "I think I know how to lift wood."
"Bookshelves are easy," Julian said, setting the heavy box down on the porch with a light grunt. "Hardwood oak planks will put you in a physical therapist's office if you aren't careful. Besides, I brought biscuits."
Harper’s eyes lit up. "Warm blueberry?"
"Is there any other kind?" Julian smiled, leaning against the porch railing as he handed her a small brown paper bag.
He watched her as she took a hot biscuit out, her face relaxing into a genuine, radiant expression of pure joy. Julian didn't look at her body with judgment or cold indifference. When he looked at Harper, his eyes held a steady, quiet admiration that made her skin tingle with a warmth she hadn't felt in years.
"You look happy today," Julian noted softly.
"I feel... peaceful," Harper admitted, looking out over the blue waters of the bay. "No sirens. No armed guards. No angry men in expensive suits telling me who I am."
"Sounds like you left a nightmare behind in Boston," Julian said gently, stepping closer to her. "Whoever he was, he was an idiot."
Harper looked down at her dusty jeans and oversized sweater. "He was a powerful man who thought people were tools to be used and discarded."
"Then he was a double idiot," Julian murmured, reaching out with his thumb to gently wipe a speck of blue flour from her collarbone. "Because a woman who can fix up a grand old house, bake better than my head chef, and laugh like music isn't a tool, Harper. She's a miracle."
Harper’s breath hitched in her throat. Her heart gave a sudden, fluttering leap against her ribs.
For the first time in her life, she didn't feel the urge to pull away or hide behind a baggy sweater.
"Julian..." she began softly.
Before she could finish her sentence, the high-pitched squeal of heavy tires echoed from the narrow coastal road at the end of the driveway.
A black high-powered SUV tore around the bend, kicking up showers of gravel as it skidded to a halt sideways in front of the house.
The driver's door flew open.
Victor Rossi stepped out onto the driveway.
He looked unraveled. His dark hair was messy, his tie was loose, and his face was drawn and pale. He took three long strides toward the porch before stopping dead in his tracks.
His pale gray eyes locked onto Julian’s hand resting near Harper’s neck.
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An explosive, suffocating heat flared through Victor’s chest—a dark, possessive fury he had never felt toward any human being in his life.
"Harper," Victor growled, his voice carrying the raw, lethal thunder of a man who was used to ruling by fear. "Get your things. You’re coming home."
