20. Gypsy

20

Gypsy

T he wind is changing.

There’s a buzzing in the air that makes the little hairs on my arms stand up, prickling with a tension I can’t shake. The salty scent of the sea has sharpened, and the taste of brine lingers on my lips.

I’ve felt it for a while now, this strange, irregular thumping in my chest, like my heartbeat is syncing up with something out there in the water, something waiting.

It started subtle—just a twinge, maybe an hour ago—but now, with every mile we sail, it’s growing stronger. Worse, every time the compass needle wavers, my head spins, and a slow, nauseating churn sits heavy in my gut.

I don’t know what it is, or why the sea’s pulse is suddenly pounding through my veins like this, but I know one thing for certain.

Something’s coming.

“Is it going to be a storm?” Vinicola steps up beside me, his voice hesitant, wind whipping his pale hair into his eyes as he gazes at the bruised sky.

“Looks like it,” I reply, my voice low.

The birds are gone, not a single one left in the sky, and the heavy silence that’s settled over us is thick, unnatural. The waves are turning restless, the wind biting sharper, and the humidity is clinging to us like a wet cloak. But it’s that damn buzzing—that crawling, charged-up feeling humming just beneath my skin—that tells me we’ve got more than just a storm coming our way.

She’s finally about to make a move, isn’t she?

Vinicola’s voice breaks through my thoughts, pulling me back. “Should I get the sails?”

For a moment, I glance at him and see the eager, wide-eyed man who I first saw on this ship, uncertain but burning with curiosity. But now? Three days at sea, and already he’s changed. His eyes, once bright with wonder, have narrowed, instinctively squinting against the sun and wind, the shine in them dulled just a little. His hair has lightened even more in the salt air, and the skin at the corners of his eyes is starting to crinkle.

A bit of that vibrant spark has worn off, giving way to something closer to wistfulness. He’s learning—slowly, but surely. Thanks in part to Zayan’s late-night games of half-truths and lies. Guess wrong too many times, and you end up on your knees scrubbing the deck. And Vinicola, being the bard he is, trusted too easily at first.

He’s been scrubbing a lot lately.

It’s a wonder what a little piracy can do to a man.

“Not yet,” I say, my eyes scanning the horizon. The storm isn’t quite upon us, but it’s lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike. If we don’t find shelter soon, it’s going to hit hard, and I don’t trust this patched-up schooner to hold together. Not after everything it’s been through. Not when it’s held together with jungle twigs and desperation instead of proper carpentry.

The wind is starting to howl, picking up speed, and I grip the railing tighter, feeling the ship sway beneath my feet.

“How’s the compass looking?” Zayan’s voice cuts through the wind. I turn to see him on deck, hands busy securing the water barrels so they don’t get tossed overboard when the storm hits.

And it will hit. No doubt about that.

“We’re heading north now,” I shout back.

“Any islands nearby?”

I squint at the horizon, trying to recall the last map we studied. Not that it matters now—those maps are below deck, secured with the rest of our belongings, out of reach in the wind’s fury. My gut is telling me we’re in uncharted waters anyway.

“None in the immediate area!” I reply. The familiar prickling under my skin makes me shudder even as I try to conceal it.

Zayan curses, loud enough that even the wind can’t drown it out. But he knew this was coming. We all did. Ever since we made the decision as a crew to follow the compass, it has felt like we’ve been living on borrowed time.

At first, the sea was calm. No sign of The Lady.

But the compass kept shifting. The first time it shifted, it was subtle. Barely a twitch. Almost easy to ignore. But now? Now it pulls at us, yanking us from one direction to the next, like it’s got a mind of its own.

I glance down at the compass, my fingers tightening around the wheel. The needle jerks violently to the northeast, then quivers, like it’s caught in a tug-of-war with something unseen. My heart skips a beat, and I instinctively adjust our course, hands white-knuckling the wheel as I fight the urge to swear under my breath.

I am not used to this. Hell, I don’t think I will ever get used to this.

“I’ve never seen the needle act like this,” Vinicola says, his voice quiet, uncertain, as he leans over my shoulder. I can hear the tremor in his voice, the same fear crawling up my spine. But of course, there’s a fascination in his tone too—like always. He tends to get hooked on the most ridiculous things. Dangerous things, too.

In a way, he fits with us—Zayan and me. We’re like that too. A specific sort of fucked up.

“Me neither,” I mutter, half to myself, half to him, my eyes fixed on the compass.

The needle trembles again, slow and unsure, wavering like a drunk trying to find his feet. It shifts left, then right, sluggish, like it’s tracing an invisible line it can’t quite follow.

“It’s changing again,” I say louder now, bitterness coating my words as I try to force calm into my voice. My fingers tighten on the wheel, a cold sweat prickling the back of my neck. The dread is rising, inching its way up my spine with every second that needle dances. “We’re close to something.”

Hell, I never thought I’d believe in anything leading me anywhere. My life has always been mine to steer, my fate mine to decide. But now? Now I feel like some puppet jerked around by invisible strings, and the worst part is, I can’t cut myself loose. Not yet, at least.

A sudden gust of wind hits the sails, filling them with a force that makes the ship lurch forward.

“Hold on!” I shout, bracing myself against the wheel as the deck bucks beneath my feet. Vinicola’s hands clamp down on the rail, his knuckles going bone-white as he clings for dear life.

I’m getting a serious case of déjà vu, and I don’t like it one bit.

The wind’s getting louder and colder. I scan the horizon, desperate to spot something—anything—that could explain the compass’s wild dance. Land. A reef. A passage made of sand shoals. Anything. But there’s nothing. Just the erratic needle and the heavy feeling pressing down on my chest like the sea itself. Like it wants to swallow me whole.

And then, like a whisper at the edge of reason, it hits me.

Could it be…?

It could. Damn it, it really could. Crazier things have happened out here, things no one believes unless they see for themselves. And this… it makes sense, in the worst way possible.

“I think our target’s moving!” I shout, gripping the wheel so hard I’m half afraid my hands will split open. They’re dry, cracked from salt and wind, and the pain in my fingers only adds to the tension winding tighter inside me. “Not land. Not something fixed. It’s moving .”

Vinicola’s face drains of color, eyes wide as saucers. “A moving target?” His voice cracks. “As in… some thing ? Oh, no. I don’t want to think about what could be moving out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“This isn’t nowhere,” Zayan cuts in, his voice steady, calm, like the chaos of the storm is nothing but background noise to him. He bounds up the stairs to the helm, and even through the biting wind, I can see that familiar cocky glint in his eyes. He points ahead, toward the horizon. “Look—there are islands. Right beneath the clouds.”

I follow his gaze, squinting against the mist. Sure enough, there they are. Shrouded in fog, rising from the sea like ghosts, the jagged silhouettes of islands—three of them, maybe more—form a broken chain in the distance.

The compass in my hand twitches, the needle shifting, unsure. But then it circles back to those islands, like it’s made up its mind. It’s pulling us there, no question about it.

That buzzing hum at the back of my skull—that strange, insistent whisper I’ve been trying to ignore—it’s louder now, like the islands themselves are calling me out. Taunting me. And hell if I like it.

But what choice do I have? The compass brought us here, and whatever’s waiting for us beyond that mist, it isn’t going away.

“Those islands,” I say, my voice tight as the wind whips around us, “we need to get closer. The compass keeps pointing there, and... something’s not right. I can feel it.”

Zayan shifts beside me, his jaw tightening. “If you say so,” he says. But there’s doubt in his eyes. It doesn’t sit with him either.

This is what I wanted, isn’t it? To see the world beyond the maps, to challenge the gods and their curses? Well, here I am. But damn, it feels more like I’m being dragged into something I didn’t ask for.

We steer toward the archipelago, battling the waves inch by inch. Each swell is bigger, more violent, the air around us humming with a charge that makes my skin crawl.

As we near the islands, they become more distinct. Rocky cliffs rise abruptly from the sea, wrapped in a thick, swirling mist that seems almost alive. There’s no vegetation on the slopes—just bare stone and waves crashing against them.

I hate this place. I hate every inch of it. But at least the cliffs break the waves, keeping us from capsizing. Small comfort. Everything else here reeks of death.

“What is... What is this?” Zayan asks, his face twisted in a scowl as he points slightly to my side. My eyes follow his finger and...

That’s when I see it. A ship, suspended in the air, as if hanging by some invisible lines from the sky. It’s broken in half, bent, as if caught by something in the middle and squished like a wooden toy. Mist shrouds its entire bottom.

“Miss Captain?” Vinicola’s voice quivers.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure. “Steady, Vinicola,” I say, though my own voice isn’t as steady as I’d like. What the fuck…? “Don’t panic.”

But of course, he panics. His hands find his hair, and even though the misty, humid air is already making it lose volume, his fingers do the job instead. He tugs at the strands, gathering them away from his face, his elbows rising. Then, he’s shaking his head, as if to himself, and I know words press onto his mind. Those rhymes he makes whenever he feels something deeply.

Something like, We’re all going to die, and I’ll be the first to cry.

Or not. I’m not half as good at this as he is, but I’d bet anything that his mind is swimming with doom.

“Do we continue?” Zayan asks, eyes locked on the eerie spectacle of the suspended ship. He’s scared too. Hell, all of us are. But I feel it’s mostly fear for me than for himself. The same kind of fear I feel, but for him and Vini.

I am the captain of this crew. Wherever I go, they follow, and I just might lead them into the clutches of death. Even if it’s not all entirely up to me.

“We don’t have a choice,” I reply. “The compass brought us here, and we need to see this through.”

Vinicola mumbles something under his breath, over and over again. His lips move in some half-formed poem, and I know it’s his way of coping. He’s trying to make sense of this nightmare with pretty words, as if that’ll keep the fear at bay.

Zayan just nods once, his eyes never leaving the ship hanging in the air.

“Right,” he mutters.

The wind picks up, howling through the mist, but it doesn’t touch us the way it should. It’s like the storm’s rage is being swallowed by the islands, leaving us to half-glide, half-creep toward the ship. The shipwreck looms closer, a broken skeleton hanging in the fog, and the compass... it’s moving slower now, like it’s not even sure where to point.

My brow furrows. Why the hell is it acting like this? It pulled us here, so what’s the hesitation now? What’s it leading us toward?

I thought this would be it. I thought this cursed compass would finally give me a straight answer. But no, I guess not.

My mind spins with questions I never wanted to ask. If The Lady is real, then what else is lurking in the depths? What if all those stories—each more ridiculous than the last—have some twisted truth to them? Krakens. Daughters of the Waves. Dead sailors, warped into something monstrous by the sea. The kind of horrors that live in the shadows of pirate legends.

The possibilities are endless. And every one of them worse than the last.

Is that what’s waiting for us here? Is that what the blue-eyed bitch wants me to see? Me, trembling like a fool for daring to disrespect her? No chance. Even if I stare straight into the eyes of a beast from the depths of hell, I won’t cower. That’s not who I am.

The closer we get to that wreck, the more I see. Jagged, glistening rocks push through the mist just above the waterline. Too many, like black teeth, waiting to tear into anything foolish enough to stray too close.

“Watch the rocks!” I shout, my voice slicing through the rising tension. “Zayan, get to the bow—keep lookout. Vinicola, ready the ropes. We might need to drop anchor fast.”

We’re just a schooner. Small, fast, and fragile. One wrong move, and we’ll be smashed against those rocks like that wreck ahead. Speed is all we have, but even speed won’t save us if we push too far.

Zayan and Vinicola spring into action, and I grip the wheel tighter, maneuvering carefully between the rocks. Sweat drips down my temples as the ship creaks beneath me, every muscle in my body tense. One slip, one mistake, and we’re finished.

“Easy now,” I mutter, eyes on the horizon, feeling the sway of the ship under my hands. Zayan’s hand signals guide me through the mist, every wave bringing us closer.

It’s slow going. Too slow. But we press on, slipping through narrow channels, the rocks closing in tighter with every breath.

“Shouldn’t go further,” Zayan’s voice cuts through the mist. “There are too many ahead.”

“Right.” I nod to Vinicola. “Drop the anchor. Now.”

The anchor plunges with a heavy thud, echoing eerily as it hits the bottom. I shiver involuntarily.

That same buzzing, the one that’s been nagging at the back of my mind, grows louder, almost deafening. It feels like drowning all over again, like in that dream. The weight of the water pressing in, dragging me under. My breath hitches, but I shake it off.

No. Not here. Not now.

I shake my head, refusing to let the feeling settle in. My eyes lock onto the ship—the one that’s seemingly floating in the air. My heart skips, and then I realize the truth. It’s not suspended at all.

It’s not floating. It’s skewered .

The mist played tricks on my eyes, hiding the truth. The wreck isn’t suspended by some unnatural force; it’s impaled on a jagged rock that juts out from the sea like a blade. The ship—massive, looming, dead—is pierced through the belly, held aloft by the very thing that killed it.

And it’s no ordinary wreck. It’s a galleon. A massive beast of a ship.

A shiver runs through me despite myself. What kind of force throws a galleon onto a rock like it’s nothing? What kind of power does that?

Zayan lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his damp hair, his eyes fixed on the wreckage. He looks like he’s trying to make sense of it too, but there’s no sense to be found here. Only questions.

“What the hell…” he mutters, his usual cocky grin wiped clean off his face.

The galleon’s timbers are weathered and ancient, crusted with seaweed and barnacles. It looks like it’s been rotting there for centuries, forgotten by time. And yet…

I glance down at the compass in my hand. The needle is pointing straight at the wreck, unwavering, like it’s found its target. But that doesn’t make sense. It really fucking doesn’t.

My pulse quickens, the realization settling like a rock in my gut. If this wreck has been stuck here for so long, how the hell did the compass act like our target was on the move? Ships don’t just sit still for centuries and suddenly make a move. Not without something pushing them.

“What the…” I mutter under my breath, the words slipping out without thought. “I don’t understand. Not one bit.” My lips press together as I stare at the needle, my mind racing. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I tighten my grip on the compass. “But we’ve got to climb that rock. We’ve got to get onto that ship.”

“Oh, no,” Vini cuts in, shaking his head violently. “No, no, no. You want to get up that?! We don’t even have a skiff! We don’t even—no. This is cursed. This place is cursed. Just like that... oh god. I know this place!” His voice pitches higher with every word, panic bleeding through. “I heard about it in a song!”

Zayan and I exchange a glance, and I almost laugh at how absurd this is. A song. Normally, I’d dismiss it, brush off any talk of sea shanties and curses as nonsense. But after everything? After this damned compass keeps proving me wrong, I’m not so sure anymore.

“What song?” I ask, my voice flat.

“It’s a sea shanty! About a cursed ship that never found its final resting place! It’s said to be trapped between worlds, anchored by a cursed rock. Sailors who ventured too close never returned! They never returned, Miss Captain! Never!”

I release the steering wheel, not even realizing I’ve been gripping it like my life depended on it, even though we’re anchored. A sea shanty about this place. Fantastic. Just what we need—another ghost story to pile onto this mess. But no amount of songs or curses changes what needs to be done.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?!” Vini screeches, his voice so high it could shatter glass.

“Okay,” I repeat, more firmly this time. “You stay aboard. Zayan and I will go.”

I glance at Cagney and see him nodding his head.

There’s a pause. Vini’s face falls into something between shock and disbelief, his mouth hanging open before a long, pitiful whine escapes him.

“What?” he squeaks finally, his voice tinged with something I didn’t expect—disappointment. He doesn’t look relieved at all. Did he not hear me clearly?

“You stay on the ship,” I repeat slowly, so he understands me this time. “If we’re not back by nightfall, you can sail out. You know how to handle the ship by now, right? There’s a map here, and the sun will guide you. Hell, if you’re feeling generous, go find my father and tell him what happened to me. You’ll be fine. No curse is going to touch you.”

I speak like I’m made of stone—strong, commanding, like a captain who knows her crew will follow. But the truth sits heavy in my chest, burning my throat as I force the words out. I can’t look him in the eye. I won’t. Not when there’s a knot tightening in my gut, telling me this might be goodbye.

Instead, I focus on the little things—stretching the worn fabric of my shirt cuffs to cover the serpent tattoo coiling around my wrist, smoothing out my pants, keeping my hands busy. I take out Zayan’s dagger, the one I’ve kept in my belt since this madness began, and hand it back to him. He takes it in silence.

“It’s going to rain, so that’s water for you,” I continue, my voice steady, too steady. “You’ve got a supply of fish. You’ll manage.”

I keep talking, anything to keep my hands from trembling, to keep from showing that leaving him behind feels wrong. He’s a grown man, capable of his own choices, but damn it, something about this is making me cold inside. I should be relieved to leave him safely behind, but I’m not.

I head to our makeshift armory, grabbing my gun, loading the powder with practiced precision. My jaw clenches, neck muscles tightening as I roll my shoulders, trying to brace myself for the unknown. For whatever’s waiting for us on that ship. I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look at Vini. I can’t afford to crack now.

And then I hear it—laughter. Sharp, maniacal laughter that makes my skin crawl. For a split second, I think it’s the madness of this place, some curse come to life. But it’s not Zayan—he’s standing right next to me, calm as always.

I turn, slowly, and the laughter hits me again. It’s Vini.

His pale blue eyes are wide, almost wild, and his face is twisted in something between amusement and desperation. He’s laughing, but there’s no humor in it. It stops as suddenly as it began, leaving only silence in its wake. He stares at me, something sharp and unnerving in his gaze.

My stomach knots.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes flicking between me and the wreck, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring. He looks half-mad. “I don’t think so.”

I force myself to hold steady, though my pulse is pounding in my ears. Keep your composure, Gypsy. Be strong. Be fucking strong.

“Excuse me?” I say, raising an eyebrow, my voice low, controlled. But my breathing quickens despite myself.

“Oh no,” Vini says, his voice steady but full of defiance. “You’re not leaving me here. I disagree.”

“You disagree?” I echo, the shock slipping through my usual defenses.

“You do?” Zayan cuts in, just as surprised as I am.

I’m offering Vinicola an easy way out. Sure, I’ve invited danger into my life for as long as I can remember, but that was always my choice. Not anyone else’s. I’ve often thought about what makes a captain to be a good one. What makes people respect one. Fear is always a constant, yes. But there is also something else, something that people don’t really talk about. It’s a factor appearing in crucial moments, those that don’t require keeping the crew in line, those that are real. Those that are all or nothing.

This is a moment like this. And this is when a good captain should give its crew a currency that matters the most in our world. Freedom.

I respect Vinicola. He’s different than me. We probably don’t agree on many things. But I’m willing to give him that which I value the most—the freedom to leave this place untouched, without his blood spilled.

Yet Vini looks at me like I’ve just insulted him. He scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. His frustration rolls off him in waves.

“I sail with pirates, do I not?” he asks, echoing the very words he used when I first asked him to paint the flag. Back then, there was wonder in his voice. Now? Now there’s nothing but… anger.

I stare at him, trying to process this. “This isn’t just your typical adventure, Vini,” I choke out, my throat tight. “This place might be cursed. As in… really cursed.”

“I sail with pirates, do I not?” he repeats, his gaze burning with a fierceness that catches me off guard. It stuns me. Breaks something inside me that I wasn’t ready to face.

“Yes, you do,” I finally admit.

“Then treat me like part of the crew.”

His words hit me harder than they should. It’s a simple request, really, but it’s more than that. It reminds me of when I asked Silverbeard for the same thing. It shows me his spirit, his defiance. Something in me softens against my will.

“But you’re scared,” I say, noting the tremble in his hands even from where I stand. He doesn’t want to be here—no sane person would.

“Of course I’m scared!” he squeals, his voice cracking just a little. “Did you see that thing?” He points at the wreck, shaking his head. “Anyone would be. Aren’t you scared, Miss Captain? Tell me the truth. Are you really not?”

I want to say no. I want to tell him I’ve got this, that nothing rattles me. But the truth catches in my throat. Zayan glances at me, that smirk creeping onto his lips, because he knows it too. I’m scared. We all are.

“You got me there,” I mutter. “So?”

“My mother always said that feeling fear is nothing bad. Being its slave is.”

Again, my soul gets pierced. For a moment, I can’t even pretend they don’t affect me. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, uninvited, unwelcome.

Damn it, Gypsy, get it together.

“You should introduce us to your mother one day,” I say, trying to deflect. “She really does sound like a vineyard of wisdom.”

Vini’s expression softens, just a little, and a fleeting smile crosses his face. “She’d like that,” he says quietly. “Maybe after we finish with this compass business.”

I crack a smile. “So you don’t want to back away?”

“I’m a free soul, Miss Captain, just like you. I don’t want to back away.”

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and nod. How can I really argue with that?

“Alright then,” I say. “We go together, then. No one gets left behind.”

Zayan grins, already convinced. He fiddles with his gun, his expression practically screaming, I’m glad I didn’t shoot this guy after all .

We gather our supplies—what little we have left. Not enough to make me feel prepared, but just enough to keep us from being completely defenseless. I strap my gun to my belt, the last line of defense, and I can’t help but give it a quick once-over. It’s seen better days. Just like me. Zayan mirrors the action, checking his gun with that casual confidence of his, like we aren’t about to wade into a death trap.

I hand him his dagger back, fully expecting him to pocket it, but instead, he surprises me. He presses the handle into Vinicola’s trembling hand.

“Take it,” Zayan says. “Just in case.”

Vinicola’s fingers curl around the dagger like it’s a holy relic. For a second, I swear I see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. He opens his mouth, probably about to spout some over-the-top thank you, but I cut him off by pulling out the mini-raft I used to get him off the island in the first place.

“We’ll use this,” I say, watching his expression shift from gratitude to outright shock. “In case we need a lifeline.”

His eyes flicker between the raft and me, as if he’s struggling to piece together what he’s looking at. “What do we do with it?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Sit on it?”

“No, Vinicola,” Zayan answers for me, his tone as sharp as the dagger he just handed over. “We all hold onto it. The mist is too thick for us to swim separately. We might lose each other, and the guns can’t get wet. We need something to keep them dry.”

“O-oh,” Vinicola mouths. “So no deals, Miss Captain?”

“Not this time.”

He fidgets, clearly trying to shake off his nerves. “Well, at least the water’s not transparent now, huh?”

We secure the raft and stand at the edge of the ship, staring into the swirling mist that clings to the water like a death shroud. There’s barely a breeze, but the atmosphere feels suffocating. The rocky path ahead looks more like a butcher’s table than a route—jagged stones waiting to slice us open.

It will be a miracle if we don’t get torn apart by those rocks.

We lower the raft into the water and climb in, gripping the sides. The cold hits me like a slap, seeping into my bones and setting my nerves on fire. This isn’t Whisperwind Sea. This water feels foreign, hostile. The kind that numbs you from the inside out. Nothing like the warm, sun-soaked waters I know, where the sea doesn’t try to freeze you alive.

Every splash sends a shiver down my spine.

“We need to find a way up,” Zayan says, his voice tense.

For what feels like an eternity, we just drift there, trying to keep our leg muscles relaxed so that if any of us feels a sharp glide against the skin, we don’t press our limbs against it. Calling it difficult is an understatement. I’m so stiff from the cold that I feel like I’m turning into stone myself.

Then, finally, a break.

“There,” I point to a series of jagged rocks that form what looks like a natural staircase leading up to the wrecked ship’s deck.

“G-good eye, Miss C-captain,” Vinicola stammers, his teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the waves.

We edge the raft toward the rocks, the waves crashing harder now. One by one, we climb out of the water, using the rocks to steady ourselves.

Finally, I’m in position to look up, and the sight makes my head spin. The ascent is nothing short of suicidal. The rocks jut out, slick and sharp, gleaming like wet knives in the mist. One wrong step, one slip, and we’re dead.

I pull the compass from my soaking boot, wiping it against my leg. The needle spins lazily, like it can’t decide what hell to send us into first. Then, it locks—straight ahead—toward the wreck’s foremast, deep in the jagged ruins of the ship.

But it doesn’t stay. It flickers, twitching to the left, struggling like it’s unsure of itself.

“Shit…” I hear a low curse behind me, and my heart skips a beat. I spin around.

“What’s happ—“ I stop mid-sentence, the words catching in my throat. I don’t need to finish. The answer is painted in blood. Zayan’s calf, just below the knee, is slashed wide open, a deep, angry cut that zigzags down his leg. Blood trickles down to his ankle, staining the rock beneath him.

“The damn rocks,” he mutters, his voice tense, barely masking the pain.

Fuck. I knew getting out of this unscathed was too much to ask for.

I move to his side, my fingers already tearing a strip from my shirt. My mind is racing, but I keep my hands steady. “Hold still,” I say, my voice betraying none of the panic clawing at the back of my throat. I wrap the makeshift bandage around his leg, pulling it tight, securing it as best I can. The fabric darkens with his blood almost immediately.

He’s watching me, those mossy green eyes boring into mine as I work. I don’t want to look at him—don’t want to acknowledge the way his gaze always feels intimate, even in the worst possible moments. But I do. And when our eyes meet, it’s like the whole world narrows to just this one moment.

“Can you walk?” I ask, my voice quiet, almost too soft for me. Like I care more than I should.

He nods, barely a tilt of his chin, but it’s enough. There’s that reckless look in his eyes again—the one that says he’d throw himself into the abyss if I asked him to. It’s the same look that got him into this mess. That same dangerous devotion that twists something inside me, something I don’t have time to unpack.

Why the hell am I so… fragile today?

First, I nearly cried because of Vinicola. Now, this. It’s like my entire perception of life is fucking changing. And all because of that blue-eyed bitch…

And just like that, the moment between us shatters. Something shifts in my expression—something not meant for Zayan at all. His lips curl unpleasantly, and his eyes go cold.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I won’t slow you down.”

I should say something. Should snap back, cut him down with the same coldness. But I don’t. I shove the tangled mess of emotions down, deep, where they belong.

“Good,” I say instead, keeping it simple, business-like. The words are hollow, but they’re better than showing him what’s really swirling inside my chest. I straighten, pulling myself to my feet, brushing the dirt and the damn situation off with it. I glance over at Vinicola, who’s been watching us the whole time, his face unreadable.

I wring the last drops of water from my clothes and force my spine straight, burying every crack I can feel splitting me open. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got to stay sharp, or none of us are getting out of here alive.

“Let’s go,” I say, the command clear.

Vinicola snaps out of whatever trance he was in, nodding quickly.

And soon enough, we start to climb, the weight of everything unsaid dragging behind me like an anchor I can’t cut loose. Just like the trail of blood Zayan Cagney leaves in his wake—thick, staining, and impossible to ignore.

Because he’s right. Sooner or later, we’re going to have to talk. Otherwise, it’ll eat me alive from the inside out.

But the problem is... I’d rather fight death itself than go digging into that dark, twisted corner of my heart. I’d rather fucking die.