It’s exactly like the one Brynne still wears beneath her armor, and something in me settles, knowing he wasn’t lying about this too. The proof is right here beneath my fingertips; another connection he has to Blackwood. I shift it to the side, and my eyes fall on a dark stain, before they start to well with tears.
Pulling the thick shirt out from under the pile of clothing, I see the slash through the front, the stain from Weston’s blood darkening it. Sig didn’t lie either, the evidence of Dane’s violence is right here beneath my fingers. Weston almost died, and the reality of what that would have meant for everyone in the crew is something I don’t want to consider.
Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I focus back on the trunk. I feel around, but there is only the uniform, no armor that would have protected him against such a vicious attack, and now I understand why Dane was able to injure him so badly. I push the uniform to the side, hoping what I’m looking for is beneath it.
It has to be in here.
When my fingers brush the worn leather, the corners of my lips lift in a smirk. I pull Weston’s guard belt out of the trunk and wrap it around my hips, cinching it tightly. It’s exactly like the ones I’ve trained with for years, and it feels comfortable and reassuring.
I also know it will irritate him when he sees me wearing it, and I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he notices. I want him to know I found it and took it, claiming something that signifies what he’s been hiding from me for so long as mine.
I slam the trunk closed and head back to the deck, walking straight to Jorn, waiting for me at the mast.
“Perfect,” he says as I approach. A crate slams into the deck behind me, vibrating the boards under my feet. I can’t keep the smirk off my lips, knowing Weston must have already noticed, and he feels some sort of way about it. Jorn looks over my shoulder, confused, but shakes his head quickly and brings his attention back to me.
“Why do I need a belt to climb the mast?” I ask.
He holds up the end of a rope in front of me. “Because, even though it’s fun to do risky things, I still don’t want you to fall andbreak your neck. Captain probably wouldn’t be too happy with me if that happened.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I say firmly. “I’d convince him to leave you alone.”
More like order him.
“Can’t convince him if you’re dead,” Jorn jokes with a wink.
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the smile he brings out. During my time here, I’ve grown to really like Jorn. His lighthearted nature, his outlook on life, even the never-ending life on Dawnlin, is so refreshing, and I wish I was more like him. I don’t want to think about how hurt I would be if the friendship between Jorn and I wasn’t real, because I don’t know how much Sig has told him.
Jorn reaches out and grabs my belt, looping the rope through it, then tying it off in an intricate knot, his fingers flowing like it is second nature.
“You’re on one end, and I’ll be on the other. That way, if you fall or slip, my weight will support you.” He ties the other end of the rope around his waist and belt in a similar fashion.
“But what if you fall?” I ask, looking him up and down. “I have a feeling I will not be able to support you.”
He shoots me a look, and I laugh. “Alright, alright, you aren’t going to fall.”
“No, I will not.” He looks around us, eyes scanning the nearby deck before he reaches up to scratch his chin. “You, uh, might struggle to reach the first beam to get up. Normally I would say just use a crate or barrel, but I take it you don’t want to go over and ask Captain for one.”
“I applaud you on your observation skills.”
He laughs at my poor attempt at humor, but then his cheeks tinge with pink, and his enormous grin turns sheepish.
“I can lift you up, but only if you’re alright with it.”
“As long as you don’t drop me,” I say and turn to face the mast.
“You’re safe with me, Little Lennox.” He looks over my head again, and I know exactly where he’s looking, rather, at who. He gives me instruction on how to place my feet when he lifts, so I can get the feel for climbing up the pole. I listen carefully, visualizing the moves he tells me before I’m ready to go.
He comes around behind me, standing close and places his hands on my hips.
“Alright Little Lennox, up you go.”
Jorn hoists me up over his head, and I grab onto the mast, following his exact instructions to clamber to the crossbeam. Once I reach a certain height, his hands clamp onto my thighs, just under my backside, and push me up farther, enough that I can wrap my arms around the beam and swing a leg over.
Jorn’s hands on me do not have the same effect as Weston’s. There’s no tingling of my skin or pounding of my heart, no desire to get closer or a feeling of loss when he’s no longer touching me. I don’t want to think about what that means. It’s more important that I focus on not falling to my death.
Once I’m sitting on the crossbeam, I lean over slightly to peer down at Jorn, who meets me with a huge smile and two thumbs up. Returning his smile, I sit up straight, gripping the wood underneath me, and look out over the deck. The world looks so different from here, and I soak in this new perspective. Despite being confined to the ship, being up on the mast like this makes me feel a little more free.
My gaze roams over the waves rolling into the cove, and the empty beach, before coming back to the ship. Weston’s eyes find mine, and I look away quickly, but not before I notice the scowl on his face and the tension in his crossed arms.
