The Tide

Es was a man of efficiency. Excellence was an art, and self-inflated bluster was its opposite.

Reason and logic were the flavours of grounding and sanity. However, he did allow room for what was an important phenomenon in his life:

Es did not believe in coincidences.

Thus, when a few subtle ones began to transpire, then more... Then more... Nenaura's composure began to fray. Subtly. Like a canary in a mine. A long-suffering tolerance of Bree, and its strangely haunted, illogical, shallow-water folk, rather than the bright intrigue she'd started with.

Indeed, the woman seemed .. dimmed. Some safety bought, but at what cost?

She was not for this. The socialite was skilled, and wasted here. They had bigger fish to fry.

He had been, indeed, growing too comfortable. Lazy. Off his guard.

Es did not question the time to leave.

They would spend some time in Herne, first.

He observed Nenaura on her fine mare. They rode back to Herne in silence. She met his glance, and he knew the opportunities to run, to hide, were long past.

That eye contact said enough.

They were going back.

Soon.

Bree had been a place to breathe, one they'd both needed. Now, Bree spelled limitations and a dulling of the senses. Dulling of drive, and a dulling of the vengeance he would soon have at all costs. 

Destructive; and spectacularly unfettered.

A thousand year scar for my enemies.

A foreign thought began to intrude, and he allowed it as he watched Nenaura turn her pretty gaze back to the road.

Maybe we will even live.

He decided then and there to begin it all with Nenaura's patron.