18. Gypsy

18

Gypsy

I wake up with sand stuck to my cheek, gritty and irritating. The sun’s already rising, heat creeping in like it has every intention of baking me alive before noon. But that’s not what feels off.

It’s the sound.

Someone’s singing .

Not just any singing—it’s loud, obnoxious, and thoroughly out of place on this empty stretch of beach. A male voice, too melodic to ignore but far too annoying to enjoy, fills the air. I groan, burying my face deeper into the crook of my arm, refusing to open my eyes. Maybe if I lie still long enough, it’ll stop.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. The gods themselves couldn’t silence this idiot, squawking like some mad peacock.

I crack an eye open, wincing as the sunlight stabs through my skull. My body aches from the last few days of running, fighting, and trying not to lose my mind in this damn jungle.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out hoarse and thick with sleep.

Vinicola’s voice chirps back, bright as the morning sun I’m currently cursing. “Good morning, Miss Captain! I thought you could use some… ambiance . Zayan and I let you sleep in.”

He’s sitting there, cross-legged like some carefree minstrel, fingers tapping against a few twigs he’s gathered. Drumming. Gods, he’s actually drumming, creating some makeshift beat as he hums a tune, flashing me that stupid grin—wide-eyed, brimming with ridiculous, childlike delight.

It’s absurd. A grown man, sitting on a beach littered with the wreckage of the schooner, smiling like he’s got nothing to fear. It’s the kind of expression you only see on the youngest, most sheltered kids—kids who haven’t yet learned that the world’s always looking for an excuse to wipe that smile off their face.

Around here, you either grow out of that fast, or life teaches you how. Because happiness, joy, any kind of good emotion—that’s just an invitation for someone to rip it away.

Anger is better. Anger protects you. It’s the only thing you can show openly without getting your throat slit for it. That’s what I’ve learned. That’s what I show. Zayan, on the other hand, wears that cocky indifference like armor—smirks, half-lidded eyes, like nothing can touch him. But it’s a defense mechanism, same as mine. A way to adapt to the brutality of this world.

Vinicola? He doesn’t seem to adapt at all.

Maybe that’s why he annoys everyone. He wears his emotions so plainly, like he’s never had to fight to bury them deep. It’s foolish. People like him—wide-eyed and wide-open—they get eaten alive.

Still, as much as his cheer grates on me, there’s something about it that feels... foreign. Refreshing, even. A reminder that not everyone’s been dragged through the same muck I have. He’s like a breeze from a world that isn’t watching its back every second. As if there’s a place where people like him can exist without getting trampled.

“Ambiance?” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face, trying to shake off the dregs of sleep. “What the hell kind of ambiance is this ?”

“I’m creating a new song!” he beams, his fingers still tapping. He doesn’t even flinch at my tone, like he’s too wrapped up in his own little world to notice.

I sit up, groaning as I roll my stiff shoulders, and blink around at the beach. The waves lap lazily at the shore, the sea almost peaceful. Almost. Because the blue-eyed bitch watching over it is probably waiting for the perfect moment to churn the sea up again, just to see us flounder.

I scan the horizon, squinting against the sun. Zayan’s nowhere to be seen. I turn back to Vinicola, who’s sitting with his songbook open and humming to himself.

“Zayan’s gone, then?” I ask, voice still groggy, though I’m starting to wake up now.

Vinicola nods, not missing a beat in his drumming. “He’s off fixing the ship. Told me to keep an eye on you. Said you looked like you needed the rest.”

I snort, rubbing the grit from my eyes. “Figures.”

I glance in the direction of the ship. Its silhouette looms even smaller than I remember, sails flapping lazily in the wind. Zayan’s barely visible, just a dark speck against the gleaming white canvas and the weather-beaten hull. If I strain, I can hear the rhythmic tapping of wood, likely him patching up the cracks we took in the storm.

“How long was I out?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, like I’m not annoyed at having been left out of the action. “When did he get up?”

Vinicola shrugs, scribbling something in his songbook. “A good while. I don’t know if he slept at all. When I woke up, the fire was already out. He left a stack of baked fish over there.” He points to a leaf piled with at least seven fish, cleaned and baked to perfection. “He wasn’t around.”

A deep sigh bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down. I push myself to my feet, legs trembling slightly as I stand.

I should’ve been the one to take care of the crew, to plan, to make sure everything’s ready for our sail. That’s my job. I’m the captain.

But it seems like Zayan has it all handled.

I hate that.

Catching fish, cleaning them, cooking them, and then fixing the ship on top of it—that’s not a small task. He must’ve been up all night, working quietly while I slept through it like a bloody novice.

The worst part? I was too damn tired to notice.

That leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Because I know what Zayan’s like—he’ll never say it, but he’ll enjoy this. Enjoy the fact that he’s done it all without needing me, without waiting for me. He’ll wear that smug grin of his and I’ll just have to take it.

“Right,” I mutter, shaking the frustration out of my limbs. “No time for this. Gotta get ready to sail out then. Can’t stay here much longer.”

Vinicola nods, but his eyes remain fixed on his songbook. The quill in his hand moves in smooth, practiced strokes, dipping in and out of a small inkwell I don’t remember him having. I squint at him, raising a brow.

Where did he even get that from? Where did he pull the ink out of? And more importantly, how the hell is he still writing songs in the middle of this?

He pauses just long enough to glance up, offering a casual shrug, as if we’re discussing the weather. “I doubt the ship’s ready, though.”

“What gives?”

“If it were, Mr. Zayan would’ve come ashore by now.” His quill pauses for a beat, and he glances at me with a casual smile. “Doesn’t seem like the type to stray too far from you, does he?”

His words hit harder than I want to admit, and it takes everything in me not to scowl. There’s nothing in his tone—no judgment, no pity—just the kind of calm observation that somehow twists the knife deeper. Heat rises in my chest, the kind I can’t quite shove down fast enough.

Vinicola notices. His gaze flicks up to me again, and when he sees the look on my face, he makes that ridiculous ‘o’ shape with his mouth, like he’s only just realized he’s poked the wrong beast.

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, really,” he says, voice easy. “Just an observation. Mr. Zayan’s not exactly subtle when it comes to you, is he?”

His offhanded tone makes my blood boil even more. It’s the kind of casual truth that hits too close to home, and worse, he’s right. Zayan isn’t subtle. Not with me. Well, that just adds salt to the wound.

“Good to know perception is what you’re good at,” I mutter.

“Well, I’ve got a knack for reading people,” he replies, not even bothering to look up this time. “Comes with the territory of being an entertainer, I suppose. Helps that Mr. Zayan isn’t all that complicated. The way he moves, the way he talks—it’s all pretty clear.”

“Just don’t tell him that.” My voice is flat, but the warning in it isn’t subtle.

Vinicola chuckles softly, finally looking up with another easygoing grin. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I take a deep breath, trying to shake the unease crawling up my spine. Damn. This is too much.

I scan the horizon again, forcing my mind to focus on the task at hand. We’ve got bigger problems than Zayan or Vinicola’s casual observations. The compass, that cursed thing, changes everything. After seeing it next to me, gleaming like it crawled up from the depths of hell, I can’t look at the sea the same way anymore. But I don’t have much choice but to sail it, do I?

The thought makes my jaw tighten, and I glance at Vini, sitting there, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing beneath the surface. He’s scared of the sea, scared of swimming, scared of everything between the waves. How he’s managed to survive this long on pirate islands, I’ll never know.

“You’ll have to swim back to the ship on your own,” I tell him, pointing at the water. The waves crash softly against the shore.

His grin falters, dropping like a stone in water. He pouts as he stands, shoving the quill into his pocket and brushing the sand off his clothes with the exaggerated care of someone trying to avoid the inevitable. It’s almost amusing, how he clings to the idea of staying clean.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me find a different way,” he mumbles, not meeting my gaze.

I can’t help it—I smile, a mix of amusement and pity creeping in as I give him the once-over. He’s still wearing that same pearly white shirt he had on when I found him locked below deck on the schooner. The same shirt he refused to wear into the jungle, terrified that the leaves, the flowers, or even the shimmer of yellow dust would ruin its precious fabric.

It paid off, I guess. The shirt’s pristine again, not a smudge in sight, even if it’s starting to look a little worn from years of careful tending. No doubt he’s been babying that thing since the day he set foot on these islands, as if a clean shirt will save him from the hell we’re in.

It’s nothing like what I’m wearing, of course. My own shirt might have started out white at some point, but now it’s more of a grayed, sweat-streaked yellow, stained from a life lived in salt and grime. Some marks never come out, no matter how much bleach or scrubbing you throw at them. But a few stains never bothered me.

What strikes me is how odd we look next to each other—two people from completely different worlds. Literally.

I smirk. “Afraid you’ll have to get wet again, Vini.”

He pouts harder. “No mercy from you, Miss Captain,” he mutters. “I was hoping you’d be my savior.”

His words make me pause—just for a second. Savior. No one’s ever called me that. Savior of what? Of him? Of our ship? I glance at him, my smirk faltering as the word echoes in my head, tugging at something I don’t want to acknowledge. I’m no one’s savior. I can barely save myself.

But Vinicola’s oblivious to the shift in my thoughts, continuing with his charming little speech.

“In my song, I called you the ‘Sea’s own daughter, strong and brave,’” he says, drawing out the words. “I’ve portrayed you as the only force that’s on my side.”

A dry laugh escapes me before I can stop it, though it tastes bitter on my tongue. “You really think I’m the only thing on your side out here?”

I can think of something else. Luck. Lots of it.

He shrugs, not missing a beat. “Well, you didn’t throw me overboard during the storm, so I’m choosing to believe you’ve got a soft spot for me.”

Soft spot. If only he knew. The truth is, I’d have killed him already if he wasn’t so... helpless. He’s a liability. But somehow, despite it, I haven’t done it.

He’s become... part of this . As dangerous and irritating as that is.

“The ‘Sea’s own daughter,’ huh?” I mutter. “That sounds like quite the flattering title. But I’m not sure your portrayal is entirely accurate.”

“It could be,” he says, that grin of his returning, playful and light.

I chuckle, more to myself than to him, wondering if this little flaxen-haired bard really thinks he can charm me. Of course he does. He’s been trying since the moment I dragged him out of that cage. And as much as I see through it, as much as I know better, part of me... doesn’t mind.

“The Sea is The Lady, bard,” I say, my voice hardening. “Don’t call me her daughter.”

“Is she now?” he muses, tilting his head like he’s giving it serious thought. “Maybe she’s just like you. A mortal. I mean, legends tend to change depending on who’s telling them, don’t they?”

I narrow my eyes at him, a wicked little idea blooming in my mind. Before I can stop it, it’s spilling on my tongue.

“Make her bleed in that song of yours, and maybe I’ll help you.”

His response is instant, his grin widening. “Deal.”

“And make me terrifying in your tale,” I add, my voice dropping low, dangerous. “I want to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares to listen. Make them regret ever crossing me.”

Again, no hesitation. “Deal.”

I nod slowly, feeling the satisfaction settle deep in my chest. “Good. Shake on it, or I’ll gut you.”

He’s still smiling as we lock hands. Mine is rough, calloused from years of pulling ropes, gripping blades, and surviving. His is soft, delicate in a way that doesn’t belong on a pirate ship.

But still, he holds on like he means it.

Having a song written about me? Not bad. Maybe if we make it through whatever’s coming, that song will find its way to my father’s ears. Maybe Sizzle will have something new to spread around the taverns. Maybe their best tale will be one about me.

How satisfying would that be? Very. Very fucking satisfying.

That is… if they ever had the stomach to disrespect the Lady like that. Which I doubt. Still, one can dream.

“So how shall you help me onto the ship without me needing to swim?” Vinicola asks, stuffing his songbook behind the hem of his pants. As he does, I catch a glimpse of the gold emblem on the cover again.

Right. Good question.

How the hell am I going to do that now?

Halfway through my swim to the schooner, it hits me like a slap in the face—asking Zayan for a plank so Vinicola can sit pretty while I haul his ass to the ship is going to sound like the worst joke of the week.

I can already picture Zayan’s brow arching, that smug smirk tugging at his lips, probably muttering something like, “ A bard too delicate to get his feet wet? Sounds about right. ”

But by the time I drag myself over the side of the ship and climb onto the deck, the smart remark I’ve prepared dies on my lips.

Zayan’s crouched by the railing, his broad back hunched over a repair job. He’s hammering something in with the hilt of his dagger, his movements steady, focused. It takes me a second to realize just how much he’s done. Patches of smoothed wood dot the deck like battle scars, and piles of debris—barrels, crates, pieces of rope—are scattered nearby, salvaged from below.

He’s been working nonstop.

“Hey,” I say, wiping seawater from my face as I approach.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, barely glancing at me. “Had a good night’s sleep?”

“Yeah. A bit too good, I’d say,” I reply, walking toward him.

Zayan doesn’t bite. He taps another bolt into place with a dull thud, securing the plank he’s been working on. “You needed the rest,” he says, his voice flat, not even bothering to meet my eyes. There’s no sarcasm, no edge. Just... tired. He’s so fucking tired, even his cocky bravado is stripped away.

I raise an eyebrow, my gaze sweeping the deck again. No wonder. He’s practically rebuilt parts of the ship by hand.

“You could’ve woken me up,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “That’s too much work for one person.”

Finally, he looks up, his eyes meeting mine. Shadows deepen the lines around them.

“You needed the rest more than I needed the help,” he says simply. Then, he turns back to hammering the last bolt into place.

For a second, I don’t know what to say. I have never seen Zayan like this. Truth be told, there are many sides of him that I haven’t experienced. We’ve only ever met for one reason, and there was no room for seriousness in that. No actual challenges. No work. So this... this is new.

I crouch down next to him, watching his hands as they work—fingers caked in grime, knuckles cracked from exertion. The deck creaks beneath us, but his focus never wavers. “Still,” I mutter, breaking the silence, “you can’t do everything alone.”

“I don’t plan to,” he replies, his hands steady as he tightens the last bolt. “You’re going to steer us into the waters. Vinicola will help you with the sails. I’ll rest then. Had to get a head start before my adrenaline wears off.”

I blink, half impressed and half irritated by how practical he is, even when he’s clearly running on fumes.

This... this I can handle. Maybe I was wrong to assume he wanted to do everything by himself. This? A cooperation. Fine. I can work with that.

“Fair enough,” I concede, leaning back on my heels. But a smirk tugs at my lips, and I let it show. “Speaking of Vinicola, though, we’ve got a small problem.”

Zayan’s hand stills mid-movement, and for the first time, I see a flicker of amusement ghost across his face. “Let me guess,” he says dryly, “he’s not exactly excited about swimming back?”

“You got it,” I quip. “Made me a deal, actually. If I get him aboard without soaking him, he’ll make me the hero of his next song.”

Zayan arches an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “And you actually agreed to that?”

I shrug. “What can I say? I could use a little admiration these days.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you’re a sucker for praise now, Gypsy.”

I don’t like the way he says it—like I’m some foolish girl chasing compliments. I cross my arms, tilting my head. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost teasing. “Just didn’t think you’d lack any.”

The shift in his tone feels like a nudge, like he’s trying to get under my skin, and it works. I want to snap back, cut him down to size. But instead, my eyes drift to his hands as he stands, noticing the slight tremor in his fingers.

He’s pushing himself too hard. I hate that I care.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

I swallow hard, trying to shove down the knot tightening in my chest. Damn him.

If things had been different between us—if I hadn’t felt all that anger toward him, If I wasn’t too careful not to let him in—I might have walked over to him, placed my hands on his chest, felt the hard planes of his muscles beneath his sun-kissed skin. I’d rake my fingers through his dark hair, pull him close until our lips collided with that raw, untamed hunger that’s always simmered beneath the surface.

I’d make him forget everything but me. Right here on this deck he’s so carefully patched up.

The thought sends heat rushing through me, and I push it down, hard.

But when he steps closer, I can smell the salt on his skin, see the flecks of sweat glistening on his forehead, and I want to lean in, taste him, wipe that smug look off his face with my teeth.

“ I admire you,“ he whispers, his voice dipping into something dangerous.

I meet his gaze, holding it steady. “You admire my body,” I reply, the words cold and cutting.

It’s easier to pretend it’s just that—to pretend it’s all physical, nothing deeper. That way, I can keep control.

Besides, my body’s all he’s ever really seen, isn’t it?

Come to think of it, this might be the first time we’re actually spending time together, talking like real people instead of colliding like waves crashing against rocks. We’ve never seen each other in daylight, never exchanged words on a clear, sunny morning or shared a moment out on the open water. No, we’ve only ever found each other in the shadows—back alleys, dark, hidden beaches, where no one’s watching, where the only thing that matters is the release our bodies crave.

We are shadows in each other’s lives. Fleeting, burning hot, then vanishing just as quick.

What do I even really know about him?

I know Zayan Cagney to be stubborn. Reckless, too. An excellent swimmer. A man who doesn’t fear death. But those things? Anyone could tell you that. Just gotta listen to a rumor or two.

And what does he know about me? Only what everyone else knows—the daughter of Silverbeard, the one who defies, who steals, who walks the line between chaos and order with a blade in hand. The reckless girl that never believed in the gods.

“I can’t deny that,” he says, his voice gravelly, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “But that’s not all.”

I step back, needing distance, needing air before I lose my resolve. But Zayan steps forward, closing the gap I just tried to create. His fingers brush against mine, a soft, fleeting touch, but it sends a bolt of heat through me. I have to fight the urge to lean into him, to let myself fall, just this once.

“Tell me one thing you admire about me, then,” I whisper, my voice a challenge. “Something real. Something true.”

His lips curl into a smirk, his green eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s amused by how easily I think I can deflect him. “That’s easy.”

“Is it?”

“Very.” His hand lifts, fingers finding a loose twirl of my hair. He’s slow, like he’s savoring every second. “You’re fearless in ways that terrify me,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, almost reverent. “You’d stand in the face of storms, men twice your size, odds that would shatter anyone else—and you’d laugh. Even though you claim not to believe in gods, in legends, in promises of gold or youth, you still keep going. Because you do believe in something. You might not say what it is, but deep down, you do.”

My heart skips a beat, just once. Only once. That’s what I tell myself.

“What is it, then?” I ask, barely above a whisper. His fingers linger in my hair, too close, too intimate.

He tilts his head, considering me, his smile softening into something almost... tender. “You believe in freedom ,“ he says. “But not just any kind of freedom. You believe in the kind that can’t be tamed. The kind that answers to no one—not gods, not men, not even the sea itself. You want it in every form. The wild, untouchable kind.”

I stare at him, words caught in my throat. He steps closer, his palm brushing softly against my waist, and I can’t help the shuddering breath that escapes me.

“That’s why you like having sex with me so much,” he whispers. “Because no one can tell you what you can or can’t do. No one can control you—not me, not Silverbeard, not anyone.”

“Liked,” I breathe, the word barely escaping my lips. “ Liked having sex with you.”

“You say that,” he murmurs, “but your body doesn’t lie as well as you think.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds more like a plea than conviction.

“Want to prove it to me?”

The challenge in his voice makes something twist inside me.My eyes flutter shut for just a moment, but in that sliver of darkness, the tension coils tighter, suffocating, unbearable. When I open them again, his gaze is fixed on me—mossy green, unyielding, daring me to fight back.

But I can’t. Because he’s right.

The fire that burns through me now is his doing. Every nerve, every muscle in my body is betraying the lie I want to tell. His scent—sea and earth—wraps around me, pulling me closer to the edge of a cliff I swore I’d never approach again.

My knees feel weak, my breath coming fast and shallow, and I know he feels it too.

“Gypsy…” His voice is velvet now, the sound of it sending heat rushing through my veins, leaving me trembling.

I want to kiss him. I’m going to kiss him. I’m going to drag him down with me, wrap my hands around his neck, feel his lips on mine, erase the distance and the lies and the anger that’s been building between us since the last time we touched.

But before I can make the move, his voice cuts through the haze. “Thought so,” he purrs, the smugness dripping from his tone. And just like that, he steps away.

The loss of his warmth is immediate, and it hits me like a cold wave crashing over the deck. My body feels empty. Raw. Exposed.

Remember how I said that showing feelings out in the open leaves room for someone using them? Yeah. Zayan just used them.

“This means nothing,” I grind out, trying to steady my voice, even though it’s taking everything I have not to scream.

“Oh, it means everything,” he replies without missing a beat, a smirk tugging at his lips as he turns away. He strolls back toward the railing, casual, as if none of this affected him at all. He doesn’t even look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the fire he just stoked to life.

My blood boils, fists clenching at my sides. I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to cool the heat coursing through me before I do something I’ll regret. Like chug something sharp and deadly in his direction.

I glance toward the edge of the ship, and there he is—Vinicola, waving his arms on the shore, looking as desperate as I feel inside. I almost forgot why I even swam over here in the first place.

“Plank,” I say through gritted teeth. “I need a plank for the bard. Something sturdy, so I can drag his ass onto this ship.”

Zayan doesn’t even turn around. “Won’t be a problem,” he says.

“Preferably now,” I snap, my patience running razor-thin. “So we can get going.”

He gives a short nod, then sets off to find a suitable plank among the gathered debris. He takes his sweet time, too. Meanwhile, I stand there, nails digging into my palms.

After a few minutes, he returns. “This should do the trick,” he says, offering it out to me. “We’ll need it back, though.”

I snatch it from him, trying not to let my frustration show. “Alright,” I mutter, our fingers brushing for just a moment as I take it from his hand. A jolt of something sharp runs up my arm. I pull back quickly, but maybe too quickly, because the way his lips quirk up in that smug, knowing look makes me bite down hard on my own.

“The ship’s not ready yet. I’ll need some time more,” he says, his voice buttery smooth. “But it shouldn’t take long. When you haul Vinicola over here, take a look at those maps we found below deck yesterday. Would be nice to know what we have.”

I nod, half listening, half imagining punching him in the throat just for the hell of it. “Sure,” I murmur, stepping to the edge of the ship.

With a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, I throw the plank overboard and leap after it, the sea rushing up to meet me. I grab the plank, securing it beneath me as I swim toward the shore. Vinicola’s face lights up when he sees me coming, the relief written all over his features.

“Finally!” he exclaims, wading into the water to meet me. “I thought you’d left me here to befriend the crabs.”

“Given how high your voice is, I doubt they’d hear you,” I tell him, smirking slightly. Gibbons used to say crabs can only hear low frequencies, which is probably why they love my father so much. His voice always sounded like distant thunder, heavy and rumbling. Silverbeard never had to shout to get their attention. Crabs practically crawled toward him.

“Huh,” Vinicola says, blinking at me, bemused. “Well, for what it’s worth, I gathered the supplies while I was waiting.” He gestures to the collection of fish and fruit that were lying by the fireplace he’s holding. “I’m ready to be rescued now, Miss Captain.”

“How helpful of you,” I mutter, pushing the plank closer. He clambers onto it, carefully balancing the supplies in his arms, while I roll my eyes and start kicking us toward the schooner. My strokes are strong, cutting through the water with ease, while Vinicola clings to the plank like it’s the only thing standing between him and certain death.

“You know,” he says, his voice dripping with forced nonchalance, “the water’s way more translucent here than back where I’m from. Makes it about ten times more terrifying.”

“Terrifying?” I glance up at him, a brow raised. “You don’t have to worry about sharks. They don’t usually come this close to shore.”

“ Usually ?“ he asks, his voice trembling slightly. “Oh gods, but they could be right below us, couldn’t they?”

I can’t help but smirk. “Could be. But they’re not.”

He swallows audibly, clinging tighter to the plank. “It’s not the sharks that scare me, really. It’s the unknown. Anything could be lurking beneath us. And the worst part? I’d see it.”

“And if you didn’t?”

“Heart doesn’t ache from that which the eyes don’t see, Miss Captain.”

I roll my eyes, kicking harder until we reach the ship. Zayan’s there, waiting, leaning over the railing like he’s been watching the whole thing. He hauls Vinicola aboard with one swift motion, while I climb up after him, shaking off the water as the sun beats down, warming my skin.

Many unspoken things linger between me and Zayan. They’re still in the air we breathe. But I shove the aside, locking it up with all the other things I don’t have time to deal with right now. We have work to do. And the sea waits for no one.

Heart doesn’t ache from that which the eyes don’t see , Vinicola had said. A wise little phrase, no doubt. Normally I’d pay it no mind.

But then again, The Lady sees everything, doesn’t she? Every blood-soaked hand, every stolen kiss, every damn betrayal whispered beneath the stars. If the gods are real—if she’s real—what does it take to make a goddess’s heart ache?

And if she can ache, then how do I make her ache because of me?