“Probably not. But you’re stuck with me anyway.” She pulled back enough to look at him. “We’re staying. All of us. This is where we belong.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” She smiled. “Though we should probably actually talk to Anya before making permanent decisions about her future.”
“Agreed.”
They stood together on the deck, holding each other while the waves rolled endlessly against the shore. The two moons hung overhead, painting everything in silver light.
Home, he thought. This is home.
And for the first time since his first family died, he let himself believe in happiness.
Let himself believe it could last.
Let himself believe he deserved it.
The relief lasted exactly one night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The smell hit her first—fish guts and brine, concentrated in the small processing room where the morning’s catch lay waiting. Corinne’s stomach lurched and she turned away from her workstation, pressing her hand against her mouth.
Not again.
She breathed through her nose and tried to focus on something else. The hum of refrigeration units. The chatter of her coworkers. The rhythmic scrape of knives against scales.
Her stomach rebelled anyway.
She made it to the bathroom just in time, retching into the toilet while her body shook with the force of it. When the nausea finally subsided, she slumped against the wall and tried to remember the last time she’d felt this miserable.
Three days. This was the third day in a row.
“Food poisoning,” she’d told herself the first morning. “Something I ate.”
But she hadn’t eaten anything unusual. And Selik, Anya, and Mikoz were all fine. If it was food poisoning, they would be sick too.
She rinsed her mouth and splashed water on her face, studying her reflection in the scratched mirror. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her skin looked pale despite the sun exposure she’d gotten lately.
I look like death warmed over.
Now that Selik had full access to the credits he’s saved over the years, he wanted her to stop working at the processing plant. So far she’d refused, but if the place was making her ill, she wouldn’t have a choice.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door.
“Corinne? You okay in there?” Chanda’s voice, concerned and maternal.
“Fine. Just give me a minute.”
She dried her face and forced herself to stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up. The picture of health and competence. Nothing to see here.
Chanda wasn’t fooled. The older woman took one look at her and steered her toward the break room instead of back to the processing floor.
“Sit,” Chanda ordered. “I’m making you tea.”
“I’m fine, really?—”
“You just spent ten minutes throwing up. You’re not fine.” Chanda filled a kettle and set it to heat, then sat across fromCorinne with her arms crossed. “How long has this been going on?”
