A Sea of Risk and Ruin
A Sea of Risk and Ruin
Stolen and adrift, I’m held prisoner by Captain Hook.
Peter warned me about how ruthless and terrible the monstrous pirate could be, but there was so much more he left out. Hook isn’t just the vicious captain of legend, he’s a man who confuses me and terrifies me all at once. But that’s not the worst part. By far the worst is when he makes me feel things I shouldn’t.
When he gives me looks that make me want to combust.
When he touches me.
When he holds me close.
James Hook is a villain, a killer who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. I’ve seen it first-hand. So why do I seek him out instead of running away? And what will happen when Peter finds me with his greatest enemy?
Lily's Note: This is the second book in the Never and Night Series, a fantasy romance. Please mind the cliff and the higherlevel of spice. Book 3, A Isle of Secrets and Shadows, will release at the end of August. TW: Attempted SA.
Chapter
One
Seven years ago
“Mom?” I sit at the foot of her bed as she stares at the wall. “Can you hear me?”
A burst of laughter echoes down the hallway. My father is busy flirting with the nurse, the same one he always makes a beeline for the moment we step into the mental hospital.
Mom doesn’t seem to notice. She’s completely wrapped up in whatever she’s seeing in her mind.
“Do you think you could talk some this time?” I scoot closer to her though she offers me no warmth.
Her body is lean and bony, and I’m not sure how they even get her to eat, though they assure us during our visits that she’s being well taken care of.
“You said a few things last time I was here. Remember?” I take her hand, the skin far too thin for someone her age. She’swasting away, dying in front of me in real time, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to change it.
I sigh and force myself to keep her hand in mine. It’s not her fault, I remind myself. This is a mental illness. She’s not like other people, and I can’t blame her for her disease. At least, that’s what my therapist told me when my mom was first admitted to this place. That was back when I still believed she was going to get better, get out, and come running home to me so she could be the mother I always wanted.
Tears prick my eyes at that thought, but I tilt my head back and will them away.
“It’s almost Mother’s Day.” I search for something, anything to talk about. “Dad’s already talking about opening the pool. The water will be too cold, though, for a swim anytime soon.” I shrug. “That’s okay with me.”
The silence falls between us again, and I listen for her shallow breaths. Her chest barely rises and falls, and her eyes only blink after long intervals of staring.
“They braided your hair.” I reach up and run my hand along the long brown and gray braid that hangs down the middle of her back. “It looks good. I’m glad they didn’t cut it. Dad thought they might.”
She blinks.
I take that as encouragement to continue, but it’s probably nothing more than a reflex. “School’s going fine. I hate chemistry. I don’t understand it. The teacher tells us to mix two things together, then something happens, but he never explains much more than that. I want to know why the reaction happens, you know? Who came up with this? Who was just sitting arounda lab one day, shooting the shit, and then decided to mix hydrogen peroxide, dish soap, and yeast? And on top of that, who decided to name the end product ‘elephant toothpaste’? Though, honestly, that’s the only thing that makes a little bit of sense out of all of it. It does sort of look like what an elephant would use for toothpaste.”
She keeps breathing. Keeps floating around in her own mind with no care for me or the outside world.
I put her hand back on her lap. “I have a bully at school, but it’s not a big deal. I can handle it. I’m tough.” I don’t know why I lie to her. She’s not listening to me anyway. The doctors at first tried to liken her state to someone who’s suffered a stroke and can’t interact but can understand perfectly well. Then they realized that wasn’t the case when it came to my mom. I like to imagine them putting some contraption on her head and measuring her brainwaves to always find the signal popping inside her mind. There’s no quiet in there, nothing like the sterile halls of this hospital. It’s color and light and creativity. At least that’s what I hope it is. Sometimes, I have doubts.
When she used to let out piercing screams while doing mundane things around the house—it terrified me when I was a child. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she’d grab me and hold me tight while she mumbled to herself. Eventually, the fear faded, and she’d take deep, trembling breaths. “I, I think I just slipped and fell into a daydream. You know what I mean, darling?”
I would nod and pretend to understand. I never did. I couldn’t. All I could do waswant. I’d want my mother to pay attention to me, to stop staring at nothing, to talk to me. I’d want her so badly I’d cry and wrap myself around her leg when she was having one of her episodes. My father had to drag me away from her on more than one occasion, scolding words on his whiskey lips as hetossed me into my room and slammed the door. That was when she’d still come back.
But when I got older, she stayed locked up in her mind for longer and longer.
