29. Gypsy

29

Gypsy

T he first thing Zayan and I do is buy two cloaks large enough to swallow us whole. They’re the kind of drab, shapeless things no one would look twice at. And that’s exactly the point.

I toss a couple of coins at the old merchant, whose eyes don’t even lift from the ground, trained on the dirt, like he knows too much to care who buys his wares.

He’s smart to do so. No one who buys camouflage wants to be remembered. And everyone on this island is capable of murder.

“Where did you get that money?” Zayan asks, eyebrow raised, his tone half-curious, half-amused, as he slips his cloak over his head.

I pull my cloak around my shoulders. “Surprised you didn’t go rooting through Fabien’s stash,” I murmur, voice low. “If you had, you’d know he keeps a fair bit of coin lying around, practically begging to be taken. I helped myself.”

Beneath his hood, I see a glint of amusement. He steps closer, his hand catching my waist, pulling me in a way that’s like his second nature now. His lips hover by my ear, hot against the cold air. “I had better things to do in my free time,” he says, voice low and smug.

A smirk tugs at my lips. “A miracle, then, that I managed to snoop around when you weren’t all over me,” I whisper back.

“Definitely a miracle,” he purrs.

A heat stirs in me, part from his words—part from the thrill of this, of all places. It’s new, this thing we’re doing: hands on each other in broad daylight, careless in front of every sneering bastard and snake-eyed trader or shifty whore on this island. They wouldn’t guess I’m a former Serpent, Silverbeard’s daughter, or that he’s the same Zayan who dives for treasure like he’s born to it, Roche’s pet terror in the Marauders.

No, they wouldn’t guess it. Because they’d never believe two supposed enemies would be here, tangled up together, right out in the open. It’s as reckless as it is exhilarating.

I tilt my head, catching his gaze with that same reckless glint. “You do realize,” I drawl, feeding the sick thrill of it, “our old crews could be here, too. Watching.”

What would my father do if he saw me here and now? I doubt he’d try to kill me. But Roche would most definitely try to kill Zayan. That man is the most ruthless motherfucker on the Whisperwind Sea, even though Zayan claims he has a heart. I’m inclined to believe it’s just a piece of lung lodged higher in his airways that he mistook for one.

Zayan leans in, his breath warm at my neck, making me stumble a little. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help a small grin. “We’re at the very edge of their territories,” he murmurs, pressing close. “Why would they bother coming here? After Escindida, it’s unlikely.”

“Unlikely,” I echo. “Not impossible.”

Since we crossed paths with Fabien at that cursed wreck, the compass has been pointing us in a completely new direction—no longer dragging us east, but pulling us back north, dangerously close to the Whisperwind Sea, the very waters where Silver and Roche circle each other like sharks.

Zayan’s grip tightens around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s barely an inch of space between us.

“Possible, yes,” he concedes, his tone a rasping whisper meant only for my ears. “But I’m done being afraid of them, Gypsy. That fear’s dead and gone.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes catching the faintest light—a glint of something wild, dark, and oh-so-familiar. It’s that feral look, the one he wears when he’s weighing his odds of another reckless idea, right before he dives headlong into it. I know this look too well; it’s like staring into a mirror that refuses to break. Odds are, I’ve worn the same expression more times than I’d like to admit.

“Right,” I murmur, barely loud enough for the words to pass between us.

For that brief beat, the marketplace fades away, and it’s just the two of us, pretending we’re invisible.

And then, a memory strikes like a barb. My lips press together as something cold digs its way up from the back of my mind. We may have put old grudges and grievances aside—or so we tell ourselves—but there are matters we’ve left untouched, festering like unhealed wounds.

“What about Silverbeard?” I ask, a calculated edge creeping into my voice. “Does he not scare you even a little?”

“Why would he?”

“You’re the reason I left his crew in the first place. Or did you forget? I chose to walk away, yes, but I know my father. Leave him to stew, and he’ll twist things up in his head until he sees a traitor in his own shadow. You might just be the traitor he’s conjured up.”

A flicker of unease crosses Zayan’s face.

“You think he’s pinned it on me?” His eyebrow lifts, but his eyes are sharp, wary. “A little ‘kill the messenger’ complex, maybe?”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Silverbeard’s not one for forgiving perceived debts.”

But instead of making it count, he just shakes his head with a soft eyeroll, that smug smile of his growing a little deeper. “Nah,” he says, voice light. “Your father’s not that kind of man.”

He might sound confident, but I can see the tension hiding in his jaw, the way his fingers tap against my waist like a tell. He’s trying to play it cool, but there’s something beneath it—a hint he’s either hiding something from me or just dismissing the whole thing. Either way, it’s enough to make me press him.

“Isn’t he?” I challenge, my voice low, steady. “How can you be so sure?”

He lifts a shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes. “Had a talk with him, didn’t I? The one behind closed doors in the tavern.”

“The one I nearly killed you for,” I mutter.

He chuckles, his grip on my waist tightening just enough to make me feel it. “Yeah, that one,” he says. “But it wasn’t all bad. Turns out we came to an… understanding.”

“An understanding ?“ I repeat, a flicker of old disbelief rising. My father isn’t exactly the type for understanding—at least not the sit-down-and-chat kind. If he wanted something, he took it; if he had a grievance, he settled it in blood. And with someone like Zayan? It makes no damn sense. I don’t care how much intel Zayan had on the compass. My father’s idea of a ‘discussion’ usually involves threats, not words.

Zayan’s gaze settles on mine. “He’s more complicated than you think. I didn’t say he liked me, but we had a talk. He didn’t want to lose you, sure, but he knew you’d make your own choices. Once he saw you had the compass, he didn’t have much say in the matter. Letting me go? Letting you go? Maybe he thought it was better than chaining you down.”

I blink, the idea simply ridiculous. Silverbeard, letting go? The man I know is a force of nature, never one to just… allow .

“As in what, exactly? He decided to hand me the freedom I’ve wanted all along?” I scoff, the notion too ridiculous to believe.

Zayan’s gaze flickers, steady as ever. “Maybe he realized he couldn’t stop you. Not with me here.” He hesitates, then adds, “I told him—I care about you. And that I’d follow you anywhere.”

I choke back a laugh. Telling my father he cares about me? That’s rich. But I shove the thought aside, focusing on what truly doesn’t add up. Silverbeard would sooner sink his own ship than see me with a Marauder. If Zayan’s telling the truth, there’s a game here I don’t see yet—one Silverbeard’s twisted to his own advantage.

“Did you make a deal with him?” The question’s out before I can stop it.

Zayan’s brow creases. “A deal? No.”

I keep my voice low, biting. “I know my father, Zayan. Did he wrangle some kind of promise out of you?”

“No. No deal,” he replies instantly. “Why would I need one? I promised I’d keep you safe, deal or not.”

“Did he ask you to promise?” I press, narrowing my eyes.

Zayan’s face twists in confusion. “No. Pretty sure that was my idea.”

There’s nothing in his eyes to latch onto—no flicker, no hint of a lie. His hand stays firm at my waist, steady as if guilt’s never crossed his mind. For all his smooth talk, he’s clean here, like he hasn’t thought twice about this before I brought it up. That’s what makes it unsettling.

“Right,” I say, voice low and even. “So I’m just supposed to believe Silverbeard—the man who’d sell his soul for a debt—let you waltz off without a price?”

He shrugs, a crooked sigh falling from his lips. “Gypsy, I don’t care what your father’s doing. I’m here for you. Silverbeard and Roche are dust to me.”

I hate it, but he’s telling the truth again.

I open my mouth to push him further, to find the loose thread in all this that we’re missing, but a sharp whistle cuts the air. A pair of men slink over to the merchant’s stall, shifty, voices low, hands hidden under their cloaks. My attention snaps to them, instincts sharpening.

Zayan’s gaze follows mine, his eyes narrowing as he slides his hand from my waist, his stance shifting, ready.

I lean close, muttering, “Time to vanish.” Without another word, we drift into the crowd, slipping through the shadows like we were never there.

The market’s a tangled mess of bodies, carts, and wares—salt-soaked fish piled high, barrels reeking of stale rum. It’s almost too easy to blend in here, way easier than it would be on Escindida, where every villager’s eyes are sharp as daggers, always hunting for a sign of a rival lurking around the corner.

We duck past a few traders, shoulder to shoulder, and for a flicker of a second, I’m reminded we’ve never done this together before. Not like this. Out in the open. Together.

Zayan’s hand settles lightly on the small of my back as we wind through the crowd. “So, what’s the plan, Flint?” he murmurs, his voice just loud enough for me to hear over the chaos. “Besides prying into my soul for how the talk with dear old dad went?”

I glance up at him, muttering, “You already know.” The difference in height is obvious under these cloaks—only the shape of my shoulders gives away that I’m a woman.

“Oh, I know. Weapons, a note for dear daddy, and off we go. But anything else?” He nods toward the shadowed alleyways and sour faces around us. “Seems like the perfect spot to take a stroll down memory lane, don’t you think?”

That mischievous glint in his eyes is in full bloom, and I’m almost tempted to smack it right off his face.

“Shut up,” even as my lips betray me with a slight smirk.

He chuckles under his breath, his fingers tracing a familiar line along my spine. “You know, I could leave my own note for Silverbeard. Tell him how thrilled I am that he left his daughter in my care.”

The thought makes me snort. “Left me in your care? Word it like that, and he’ll only add you to his kill list. Believe me, he’s not the accommodating type.”

“Maybe we should just say I kidnapped you, then?” He flashes me that mischievous glint, and for a second, I almost believe he means it. “Wouldn’t be entirely untrue—we’ve got a habit of using a rope here and there lately.”

I feel heat rise in my cheeks, though I keep my voice steady. “Well… ropes and I get along.”

“Among other things,” he purrs.

The brush of his hand, his touch a bit too comfortable, almost makes my pulse skip. I let myself lean in, just slightly, the thrill of being in the open slipping back in. “Other things, huh?” I murmur, tone low, mocking. “Got specifics in mind, Cagney?”

“I can think of one thing you get along almost too well with.”

The satisfaction sharpens in me, too tempting to ignore. Yes, me and that thing do get along great. There’s a power in this, holding him just close enough, knowing he’d risk everything just for this. For me.

I press in closer, feeling the heat of him, the weight of his hand under me. Salt and spice linger in the air, and I smirk, letting my words curl with challenge. “You losing control here, Cagney?”

“Out in the open like that?” he asks, voice a shade darker.

“I am,” I breathe.

“Fuck.”

Oh, he’d do it. Right here, right now, if I demanded it—fall to his knees, look up at me with that damned longing in his eyes.

My fingers tighten around material of my cloak.

You could make him beg, Gypsy. Hear him plead again, right here.

Isn’t that a dangerous temptation? One would think it would disappear after I gave into it. But no, it only grew. The monster inside my little black heart is alive and hungry. It expands, takes over, and my whole body feels it.

A hot pulse flares low in my belly as his hands slide beneath my cloak, settling on my hips with a greedy, unapologetic squeeze. He smirks—damn him—and I lean in, pulling him to me just enough to feel that dangerous thrill start to spread.

I still can’t decide which version of him I want more—the breathless fool beneath me or the cocky bastard who knows how mutual this is. Both, probably. Definitely both. Why choose, when each side makes me burn in ways I’d rather not admit?

His voice drops, brushing his lips just barely against mine, “If your father knew half the things I want to do to you, he’d never let me get this close.”

“Don’t bring him up, Zayan,” I cut in. I don’t need his reminders of Silverbeard now.

A growl rumbles from him, vibrating right through me, and then he’s gripping the back of my neck, pulling me closer, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that’s rough and demanding. Fine by me—I shove him back, letting him stumble for all I care. He can find his balance on something solid; all I want is to feel him pinned, trapped against something, with me in full control.

His back collides with the unforgiving stone of the alley wall, and I don’t waste a second. My hands slip under his cloak, fingers gliding over the hard muscles of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin.

One of his hands snakes up to tangle in my hair, pulling my head slightly to the side before his lips tear away from me and leap at my exposed neck. He sucks and nips my sensitive skin as I moan into him.

I can feel the heat of his breath, pulling just enough to tip my head, and he breaks away, mouth claiming the exposed skin of my neck, nipping and biting until a moan escapes me. Heat flares at every scrape of his teeth over my pulse.

“I want you,” he breathes, his voice rough, catching on the words like it costs him to say it. “No, I fucking need you, Gypsy.”

He’s let me take the reins every time. Days of him giving in, doing anything I asked, never once demanding more than I offered. I’d bind his wrists, pull him under me, and he’d watch me with that look—no fight, no complaint, just him letting me take every inch. It did something to me then. Hell, it still does.

“I need you too,” I breathe, hating the weight of this damn cloak already. I want it gone. I want to strip it all off, to be bare with the one man haunting every damn thought I have.

But that cloak stays.

Zayan’s breath catches as I press my thigh between his legs, feeling him hard against me. His tongue lashes out, tasting my skin, licking all the way from the nook of my neck to my earlobe. There, he clamps his teeth on it and makes another wave of shivers spread down my spine.

“I can’t take it anymore, love,” he breathes, barely holding back. “I need to be inside you.”

The hunger in his tone, the way he’s practically begging… it stirs something in me. Something wicked.

“Oh, Zayan.” I pull back just enough to meet his gaze, letting a slow smirk tug at my lips. “What’s stopping you?”

There should be many things stopping him, in fact. This island’s crawling with bastards who’d kill us just to pass the time. Two fools wrapped up in each other out in the open? Might as well be begging for a dagger between the ribs—or worse. Anyone could decide to watch. Join in. Rob us. And then there’s the chance someone sees us for what we are. Word slips, and Roche would be on us in seconds, hunting like the hound he is, all because Zayan’s a Marauder.

But here we are, doing what we shouldn’t. And the risk? It’s fuel for the fire. Because that’s what we are, aren’t we? The ones who break rules and laugh about it.

“Here?” he asks, his eyes darting around, barely waiting for my answer before that damnable grin spreads across his face. He’s already working his pants down.

Almost instantly, an impressive tent appears on his cloak, twitching once, then twice. I lick my lips, saliva flooding my mouth. Shit, how I’d like to drop down right now, make his legs tremble, watch him lean against the wall for balance...

But then he’s tugging at my cloak, pulling me flush against him as his hands travel down my hips.

“Someone’s eager,” I mutter with a low chuckle, helping him shed what little remains of our pretense.

“Always,” he groans, lifting me up and spinning us around.

This time, it’s my turn to be pinned against the wall as he holds me there, his body pressing into mine. The cold stone bites into my back, but I couldn’t care less—I just arch my spine, wrapping my legs around Zayan’s waist, pulling him closer. I need the friction. I need him .

His hands are rough, hurried, pushing aside the last barriers of clothing between us. My own bottoms drop to the ground, and I’m just grateful there’s no mud, only dust on the dirt path beneath us. Goosebumps rise on my skin as the air hits me, and I draw a sharp breath at the sensation.

The sounds around us suddenly grow louder. I’m hyper-aware of just how close we are to everyone else. Passersby on the road only a few feet away—their boots thudding, their gear clinking.

“Don’t you make a sound, or they’ll know what we’re doing here,” Zayan groans, and a second later, he’s slipping inside, making me breathless, my lips parting.

If I didn’t care for my life, I’d let a long, deep moan escape, letting the world know exactly how good he makes me feel. But the stakes are too high. It’s dangerous to be seen as a whore on this island, let alone a girl getting taken rough in a back alley.

I have to bite his shoulder just to stifle the whimpers getting past my throat.

Women need to be one step ahead of any man to survive in this cruel world. They need to have their guns always ready, legs always prepared and warmed up to kick or push or run if needed. They need to be fucking ruthless not to tremble when it’s time to jab their two fingers into some creeper’s eyes.

I know all that. I have been a woman all my life.

But now, as Zayan slides inside me balls deep and presses me against him until even the noise fades, I almost don’t care. There’s a thrill in this, an ache, and for once, I let myself feel every bit of it.

I should be clawing for control right now, pushing him back, keeping a safe distance. I’m practically handing him every weak part of me, letting him see how much I want this—how much I want him. It should scare the hell out of me. But instead it only heightens the pleasure coursing through me.

Yes… Fuck, yes.

He fucks me like hasn’t done it in months, like his hunger is endless, like he needs me to survive.

I can’t even get a sound past his shoulder over my mouth, but my body betrays every word I’d never say aloud, shuddering under each thrust, my nails digging into his back even through his cloak.

“You feel divine,” he groans. “I don’t want to ever feel another pussy but yours.”

And damn him, but I believe him. My body believes him too as I clench around him, gripping him tighter, and feeling a new whimper rise in my throat.

He quickens his pace, driving into me with a force that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me. I feel the tension coil tighter and tighter inside me, like a rope pulled to its limit, ready to snap. My hands claw at his back, desperate for something to hold onto as I teeter on the edge of oblivion. My fingernails dig into his skin as he whispers into my ear.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “So fucking well…”

His shoulder shifts , loosening just enough to let a gasp escape me, a sound I can’t stifle. He must hear it too, because he lets out a low, guttural growl.

“Gypsy, love,” he murmurs, voice rough and breaking. “I’m going to fill you up like this, make you feel my cum dripping out of you… all damn day.”

At his words, I come undone, my body splintering under the force of the orgasm. My head falls back, hitting the wall as my eyes flutter shut, and I’m lost in it.

He reaches up, tugging my hood down just enough to bare my neck completely. He nuzzles his nose in it, inhaling deeply as he keeps on fucking me.

I’m shaking, eyes rolling back, and I want to cry out—think I am crying out. But his hand clamps over my mouth, muting the sound. Everything goes white.

He doesn’t let me go for a long time afterward. He keeps thrusting into me, stretching out my bliss, making me dance on that thin line between sanity and oblivion until it all ends.

Then, he follows me over the edge, his body tensing as he thrusts into me one final time, groaning my name into my ear. I can feel the heat of him spilling inside me, his thick cum filling me full.

His body shudders against mine as he collapses, his weight pinning me to the wall. The world around us starts to come back into focus, the market sounds filtering in through the haze. I’m breathing hard, heart still pounding.

I’m catching my breath, heartbeat drumming in my ears, when Zayan’s hand slips from my mouth to my shoulder.

“Is your back okay?” he mutters, voice rough.

I smirk, feeling the sting along my spine. “Scratched to hell, I’m sure.”

“You could’ve told me to stop,” he says, sounding almost...concerned.

“Maybe,” I shrug. “But I didn’t want to.”

The lingering ache, the bruises—I savor it all, twisted as it is. The soreness only makes it feel dirtier, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I don’t tell him that, of course. Instead, I arch a brow at him, feeling the heat of his cum sliding down my thighs.

“I really am dripping,“ I say, meeting his eyes.

A flicker of pride flashes across his face, and he reaches down, tracing a finger along the line of my thigh where his cum is slipping. He brings it to his lips, locking eyes with me as he tastes himself there, a devilish glint lighting his gaze.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “That’s how it should be.”

I feel a shiver course through me, even as my breathing finally steadies.

He steps back, adjusting his cloak and turns around to check whether we were seen. I tuck myself back together, putting my pants back in place, even though my thighs are wet, and join him. Luckily, there are no rogue bastards standing anywhere near us. If we were seen or heard, people must have ignored us.

“Guess I’ll just have to deal with it,” I mutter, catching his eyes. He smirks.

“Consider it a reminder,” he says. “Of all the things I have to offer you.”

I snort, rolling my eyes, but can’t quite hide the smirk tugging at my lips. A reminder, he says. As if I need any more of those where he’s concerned.

I drop down onto a rock, clutching a bottle in one hand and a scrap of parchment in the other, charcoal already smudging my fingers. The words refuse to come; my head’s a mess, tangled up from even attempting to figure out what in hell I’d say in a letter to my father.

“Why not just say you’re alive?” Zayan quips, his brow arched like he’s amused. “Keep it simple.”

I glance over at him, his gaze steady on the waves, and there’s a flicker of envy in me. He doesn’t seem to have this kind of problems. He always seems to know what to say, even in the worst kind of moments.

“I don’t know if ‘alive’ covers it,” I mutter, turning the bottle over in my hand. The glass is smooth and cold, and it still stinks a bit of rum. “And I doubt that’s what he wants to hear from his runaway daughter.”

“He’ll be happy enough just knowing you’re breathing,” Zayan replies, turning to me. “For all he knows, you’re lying at the bottom of the sea—just another name cursed by that compass.”

He’s probably right. By now, my father likely thinks I’m nothing but a memory—maybe a regret he’s buried with the rest of his mistakes. The bastard is ruthless, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting when he threw me off the crew. But it’s his job to put them first, isn’t it? Most of them, anyway.

“Not like that’s far from the truth,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

Emotions churn inside me, all tangled up, each one trying to claim a piece of me. But only a few make the cut: courage, drive, a taste for the thrill. The rest? I shove them down. Fear, doubt, guilt—they’re like leeches clinging to flesh, sapping my strength, dragging me toward shadows I’d rather not face.

Anger, though—anger’s useful. Sharp as a blade and twice as clear. It’s a weapon. Keeps me focused, keeps the haze from closing in.

But now, those other damned feelings have latched onto me like they belong. I can’t shake them, and I hate the way they make me feel. Weak. Useless.

“All the more reason to let him know that, then,” Zayan says.

“Or it’ll just be a pointless letter he reads after I’m dead. Just another wound, salt rubbed into the scars. Cruel, don’t you think?” The words spill out.

“Maybe,” he says quietly, “but if it were me, I’d want to know. Letter or no, I’d want to know if you cared, even at the end.”

I pause, swallowing hard. “Why?”

“Because it’d mean that, even facing death, you thought of him. That he mattered enough to reach out, after everything.”

I toy with the bottle in my hands, watching the glass catch the last of the light. Tiny prisms dance on the sand.

“You’re right, maybe.” My voice is low. “And I do think of him. Sometimes.” A beat. “You ever think of Roche? He’s the closest thing you have to a father, isn’t he?”

His expression shifts, the warmth he reserves only for me flickering and fading. It’s gone by the time he answers.

“Roche is… complicated.” He stares out to the horizon, jaw tight, the softness gone. “He took me in when no one else would. Trained me, gave me purpose. But he’s nothing like your father. There’s no warmth in him—not the kind Silverbeard has for you.”

Warmth? For a second, I almost laugh. Calling Silverbeard “warm” is like calling a storm gentle. But maybe that just says more about Roche than it does about Silver.

“So you don’t think about him? Not even now, with everything upside down?”

Zayan shrugs, his gaze drifting back to the sea. “I think about him, sure. But not like you’d think. It’s not guilt or longing. It’s more… wondering what he’d do if he were me. He’s ruthless, yes, but smart. I learned plenty from him. Could probably learn more if I stayed.”

I set the bottle beside me on the rock, focusing on the quill and paper in my other hand. My finger traces the edge of the paper. It’s sharp enough to cut me, but I play with it regardless.

“Yeah, I bet he’s got survival down to an art,” I say dryly.

Zayan gives a faint scoff, nodding. “They both do.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can feel him looking at me. “Fucking cockroaches, the two of them.”

I don’t look at him, just press my lip between my teeth, letting the thought sit heavy. I never told Silver how much he taught me, how he fed me every trick I know. Not that it would matter—I’m just the stray he dragged on board, the one he never had to keep. And I never once thanked him.

Maybe I’ll die before I get the chance.

“Silver taught me a lot, too,” I say. “How to look at a man and see ten moves ahead, how to know which words will cut deepest. For him, survival wasn’t brute strength. It was out-thinking everyone else, seeing the end before it began. That’s why no one can ever predict him.”

“Yeah,” Zayan murmurs, voice low and raw. “Roche was the same. Always said the mind was the sharpest weapon. Control a man’s mind, and you’ve got his fate in your hands.”

I glance down at the piece of paper again, dragging a finger along its edge. How do you thank someone for making you who you are, even if who you are’s a bit scraped at the edges?

Zayan tilts his head, catching that split-second hesitation. His voice is softer than I expected. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Gypsy. Just write what you need to say. He’ll get it.”

He’s right, of course. Just let the words out, get it done, and then I can close my eyes and imagine the memory sinks to the bottom of the sea.

I take a slow breath, tighten my grip on the quill, and dig in.

“Silver,” I begin, scribbling down the letters like I have little fins instead of fingers. The ink looks like hell on the page, nowhere near Vini’s fancy loops. But then, Silver’s isn’t much better. He’ll manage.

“Not sure when you’ll read this—or if you even will. Can’t say I picked the best place to leave a note, but we both know I’ve never had the knack for perfect timing. You’re probably off at Escindida with the crew… if you even want me back. And something tells me you do. You’ve never been one to cut the line, even when someone’s yanked on it just to see if you’d snap.

I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you talked about family sticking together, taking care of our own—and not slipping knives behind each other’s backs. Should’ve just told you about the compass from the start, at least had the sense to show you respect as my Captain. Instead, I played you right into a corner with no way out.

Too late to undo any of it, but I get it now. I see why you did what you did, why you were always lurking just over my shoulder. You were watching out for me the only way you knew how, giving me just enough rope to find my way—but never enough to let me hang myself with it.

And here’s the laugh—you were right to worry. Turns out, the goddess exists. Real as the damn tides, and twice as relentless. She’s set on hounding me, no matter that I never asked for her or her meddling.

But I’m not lying down for her. I’m facing her head-on, just like you’d expect. If she thinks she’s got the patience to wear me down, she’s in for a long fight.

So, thanks, old man. And I’m sorry—for all of it.

Your reckless daughter”

I pause, jaw tight, and glance down at my scrawling mess of ink. Somehow, at some point, a tear managed to slip down my cheek, leaving a cold, irritating streak behind. I swipe it away fast, not keen on Zayan catching a hint of it.

But knowing him, he probably noticed anyway. He’s just acting like he didn’t, eyes fixed on the horizon, giving me space without making a show of it. Damn him for being as decent as he is infuriating—this smug, reckless Marauder.

A faint smirk finds its way to my lips as I grip the quill again, adding one last line to the message.

“P.S. Thanks for letting a Marauder chase me down. With him around, maybe I’ll beat that cursed bitch yet.”

Satisfied, I fold the parchment and slip it into the bottle, sealing it tight. I stand, tucking it carefully into a nook between two rocks—the closest thing we have to a pirate post office. There it’ll wait, safe until someone retrieves it.

If they ever do, that is. Hopefully they do. While I’m still breathing.