All the breath puffs out of me.
Definitely dislocated. Looks just like diagrams I’ve seen in medis books in Spines.
I let my hand fall, head tipping as I close my eyes, sweat dappling my brow despite the cool stir of wind that seems to have woken the sea.
If I call for Alon, they’ll drag me down to that small, poky room. Probably lock me out of the nest for good.
I have to pop it back in myself.
Somehow.
Reinspecting the disjointed protrusion, movement catches my eye, dragging it between the gaps in the railing and out across the rolling ocean.
My next breath is snipped mid pull, frantic gaze hopping from one navy sail to another …
“Fuck.”
A hive of ships surrounds us—some closer, others so far away it’s hard to make out the finer details.
I thought Cainon was being dramatic, but he brought an entirefleet.Toomany ships to be considered a courtesy hand over as trade for my hand.
My heart sinks.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I drop my stare to the first of many rowboats shoving through the choppy ocean; to the statuesque man perched at the nose of it, wheaten hair pulled back, tan skin struck by the sun.
Sky-blue eyes pinned to me.
My breath hitches.
Something inside me squirms, the rest of me paralyzed by a suffocating string of tension coiling around my limbs and body.
Cainon, High Master of the Southern Territory of Bahari.
My promised.
His mouth cuts a hard line, stare unwavering as the two men working the oars ferry him closer, every pull adding another horse to the galloping herd in my chest. They dock against the ship, rope ladders thrown overboard by grim-faced crewmen. Cainon finally breaks his stare to climb up the edge, and my posture crumbles.
I tip onto my back and stare at the sky, then down at the cupla shackling my wrist—gold accents catching the sun and tossing it back at me.
The fierce sledge of my heart accelerates.
Shit.
I edge up, hissing a pained breath as I cradle my arm, shuffle forward, and shove my head through a gap in the spindles, my hair falling heavy around my face.
Cainon eases over the handrail and steps aboard.
The crew are standing at attention in a long line, white bandages starkly contrasting their weather-beaten skin. Cainon stops before our stoic captain, and I watch them converse.
Crane to listen.
The thieving sea breeze pockets their words before they can make it to me.
Cainon looks up the mast, catching my eye and breath in the same motion. My stomach swirls as he breaks away, stalks toward my ladder, then grabs hold of the bottom rung and yells, “Open the hatch, Orlaith. I’m coming up.”
I glance across his bobbing fleet, back to the top of his head. “The lock’s rusted shut. Might take me a while to chip it open. I’ll just meet you there.”
