“We’re just on a couples retreat,” India explains. “Trying to get away from work and social media for a few days.”
Just then, one of the protestors’ chants grows particularly loud. Kendrick turns his head toward them, nodding slightly.
“You know, they’re not wrong,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “These supernaturals think they can just take over everything. Look at what’s happening to Detroit.”
India shifts uncomfortably beside him, her eyes flicking to me as if gauging my reaction.
“Kendrick, please,” she whispers. “Not now.”
I keep my smile fixed in place, though inside I’m thinking,He’s a radical? What the hell is he doing boarding the ship then?
Kendrick notices my expression and shrugs, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal a holstered gun at his hip. My eyes widen, and he taps the weapon lightly.
“Michigan law,” he says simply. “I have a right to carry. They can’t deny me boarding just because I want to feel safe.”
“If you don’t like supernaturals,” I ask carefully, still maintaining my pleasant expression, “why visit their spaces at all?”
Kendrick’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because I have the same rights they do. They can’t stop me from enjoying myself.”
I keep smiling, determined not to engage further. Being labeled a supernatural lover is worse than any crime these days. I’m trying to enjoy my vacation, not get into an argument with someone who’s clearly looking for one.
I keep up small talk with the couple as the line progresses, steering the conversation away from politics and toward neutral topics. This helps pass the time and manages the intrusive thoughts about my world being turned upside down. It was so hard to smile and be supportive while I got Monet together for her birthday party yesterday. “Fake it ’til you make it” was an understatement. And I know Monet saw right through me because she kept asking what was wrong.
Finally, the line stops where two large shifters stand at what appears to be the outdoor cruise terminal—a series of white tents with check-in stations and luggage handling areas. Kendrick and India turn in their luggage, but I notice that the shifters keep staring at me, grinning in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
I’m not sure if I should be flattered or irritated.
As I start pulling my bags forward, one of the shifters—a tall Black male with unusually bright brown eyes that practically glow—comes around and grabs my bags. His Wintermoon Cruise uniform is crisp and professional, a navy blue suit with gold accents and the cruise logo embroidered on the breast pocket. Despite his professional appearance, there’s something wild about him that no uniform can contain.
“I’ve got it, sister,” he says.
His partner, equally tall with silver eyes that mark him as supernatural, takes my boarding pass and information. They’re both fully human in appearance except for their height, size, and those distinctive eyes that are a dead giveaway that they aren’t human.
They tag my bags with the room number and add them to one of the luggage carts.
“Are you here for safe passage to Wintermoon?” the first shifter asks, his brown eyes studying me intently.
I furrow my brow at the question. “No, I thought they don’t dock on the tourist island. I’m just here for the cruise.”
The second shifter growls—actually growls—at his colleague. “Stop being weird. You know we can’t be pushy anymore. It has to be a choice.”
The first shifter growls back, a low, guttural sound that twists something deep in my gut.
The second shifter hands me my boarding pass. “Enjoy your trip, Ms. Murphy.”
I walk around them, looking back with confusion. “That was weird,” I mutter to myself.
Were they implying that I have the fated scent? I snort at the thought. No way. That’s just ridiculous.
I walk over to the boarding area where India and Kendrick have already disappeared inside. A human staff member in the same navy uniform scans my ticket, then gives me a small gift bag with the Wintermoon Cruise logo.
“Welcome to Wintermoon Cruise,” he says with a practiced smile. “Enjoy your journey.”
I thank the attendant and step onto the gangway, the metal structure vibrating slightly with each step. As I board the ship, the temperature immediately drops by several degrees thanks to the powerful air conditioning—a blessed relief from the summer heat.
The main atrium is huge. Crystal chandeliers hang from high ceilings, throwing light across polished floors. Smells like fresh paint, wood polish, and something sweet—honey maybe, or vanilla.
To my left and right, small luxury boutiques line the walkway—jewelry, designer clothing, and high-end souvenirs. Straight ahead, a grand staircase curves upward to the higher decks, and glass elevators glide silently up and down transparent shafts.
