I’m sailing toward my promised, still drugging myself with the fading dregs of another man. My final vice. The hardest anchor to cut loose.
The one I don’twantto cut loose.
Unlike the caspun, I don’t limit myself to just one breath. I inflate myself with gluttonous gulps until I’m light-headed and floating before I tuck it beneath my sword and retrieve a parcel that’s long and heavy for its small size.
I unroll it—slow and cautious.
Nestled between the folds is a fork I stole from the galley, its pronged tips sharp enough to puncture flesh. I keep unrolling, and a spoon tumbles into my lap.
I stare at it, trying to ignore the two silhouettes leering down on me from their loftier perch—hard to do when their voices keep pecking at me.
“You know she asked the cook for some preserve jars and baking twine so she could ‘tie ‘em to the mast to root her clippings’? You should’ve seen the way he looked at her.”
“Witch, I tell ya,” Vanth bites out. “I’ve known from the moment I watched her pick mushrooms off a pile of shit. High Master’s been beguiled by that round ass and fuckable face.”
“Not me. Something about her eyes makes me want to shit my drawers.” A small pause, then, “Gage seems to like her …”
“Only because he no longer has to pull night shifts on the aftermast.”
Snatching the utensils in white-knuckled fists, I suspend them before me, teeth gritted, stare stabbed through the spindles and out across the ocean that looks like crumbled moonlight. I fill my lungs with salted air and tune into the sound of water slapping against the side of the ship.
Muscles bunched, I tighten my sweaty palms around the tools and bring them together ...
Tink.
The sound chips at my bones. Releases a flood of pressure from somewhere deep inside my chest, racing to attack the confines of my skin until it feels like I’m about to split ten ways.
It takes me too many drawn-out breaths to shore up the courage to drag them down the length of each other—a sharp, screeching sound that snaps my eyes shut and has me clamping my lips against the urge to scream.
I fill my lungs, hold,release …
Repeat.
“What’s”—footsteps shuffle—”what’s she doing?”
“Some weird ritual. She’s done it every night since we set sail.”
I ease deeper into the shadow, thoughts thrown back to the time I forgot one of Baze’s vital rules and tucked my thumb before I threw a punch at his face.
We both heard the crunch seconds before the blow of pain crippled me.
For weeks, I couldn’t braid my hair, shoot an arrow, swing a blade. Worst of all was not being able to wield my diamond pickaxe or even hold a paintbrush.
I never tucked my thumb again.
Pain taught me a lesson then; my penance for not listening was weeks of a dashed routine. Now, it’s the only shield I have againstmyself.A reminder that, should I forget what I’m capable of—what I’ve done—I could lose control again.
“Told you,” Vanth mutters. “She’s fucking nuts.”
I crack my neck. Feed on their words. Drag the utensils against each other—harder this time.
The sound can’t break me if I’m already in pieces.
Beads of sweat dart down my temples while violentthingserupt against my skin and skull, rooting around like an army of caustic, flesh-eating worms. Because that’s what it is, I realize—the raging pressure that strikes every time I’m triggered.
Those sizzling roots seeking freedom. Seeking something tosaw.
I look to the stars, doubting Rhordyn knows how ugly I am beneath the pretty skin he’s forced me to hide all these years. Layers upon layers oflies.Either way, the dull metal clasp at the back of my neck now feels too flimsy.
