KIERAN’S POV
The Blackthorne name meant something in every corner of the world, but here—on my island—it meant ownership.
Musha Cay stretched before us in glimmering white sand and crystalline turquoise shallows, the kind of paradise people paid hundreds of thousands to rent for a weekend.
Palms bent in the trade winds, manicured pathways gleamed like something out of a resort brochure, and discreet cameras tracked every angle.
Sentinels sworn to protect my son with their lives stood at invisible checkpoints, blending into the foliage, their presence silent but absolute.
The yacht had docked smoothly, crew jumping to secure lines. I stepped onto the pier with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times, but my eyes weren’t on the scenery or the staff lined up in crisp uniforms. They were on her.
Seraphina.
She was kneeling, Daniel’s arms around her neck as though he’d never let go.
