Chapter 6

Istep down a dark, narrow staircase into the suffocating confines of the makeshift infirmary, so different from the above-deck racket stomping overhead. The low roof coupled with the lack of windows thickens the hot, potent residue of spew, pain, and body odor.

The floorboards are slathered in vomit and blood, sloshed through the remaining seawater. Someone dry heaves, and I clap my hand over my mouth as a lumpy splatter wrestles with the dull chorus of groans.

Swallowing bile, my attention jumps between packed-in wooden cots partitioned by sheer drapes. Between stricken sailors with powdery eyes—some present, some flat and vacant, as if the pain has ferried their minds somewhere that doesn’t hurt so much.

One man looks straight at me and silently holds my stare. My gaze drops to his left leg that now ends in a bandaged nub, and something inside my chest pulls taut.

My fault.

“Mistress?”

I blink, stare sliding to a young man with tousled, bright blond hair and kind, tired eyes standing between two cots, shirt rolled to his elbows. He wipes his bloodied hands on a shredded piece of cloth, then whips it over his shoulder.

“Just Orlaith.”

“I’m Alon,” he says, and I stare at his hand for a bit before realizing he wants me to give him mine.

He shakes it like he’s checking it’s still attached, and I clear my throat, glancing around the room again once he lets it go. “Can I, ahh, help at all?”

Relief brightens his eyes.

“I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Are you good with a needle?”

“I’ve had some experience, yes.”

“Excellent.”

He drops to a knee before a dented metal box set on the ground, gesturing for me to do the same as he cranks the lid. I knot my hair into a low bun, then roll my sleeves, listening to the crash course on the various jars of ointment and their uses—most of which I’m already familiar with. He points out the different tools I may require, shows me where to find rolls of dressing, and even gives me a demonstration on how to sanitize a needle.

Little does he know, I’ve sanitized a needle almost every day for as long as I can remember.

He hands me a corked bottle of rum. “Let them have a swig before tipping it on. Stitch them up, swipe some ointment, bind them in gauze, then move on to the next.”

My chest tightens as he drops a pair of metal snips into my other hand. I clear my throat, wrapping my fingers around the sharp instrument. “Got it.”

* * *

“It’ll hold, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The man I just stitched together scowls at my handiwork, lets out a gruff sound, and pushes to his feet, making for the door without looking back.

I swipe the dappled sweat from my forehead, then move toward Jerid sprawled in the adjacent cot with a blood-soaked tourniquet bound around his arm.

His gaunt stare swivels to me.

“Last I saw, you were climbing the mainsail. What happened?” I ask.

“Was in the n-nest. Wrapped my hand in … r-rope so I wouldn’t float away,” he stammers between short, sharp breaths. “Ship s-self-corrected … turned my body … into a wh-whip.”

I wince, arching back so I can peek past the draped material for the medis. He’s elbow deep in someone’s abdomen three cots down the line.

Dammit.

“I’ve never set a bone before,” I admit, stepping closer, meeting Jerid’s wide-eyed stare. “But I can give it a shot?”

“Fuck me,” he mumbles, then accepts my bottle of rum and takes a generous swig, hissing through clenched teeth as I unwrap the bandage and gently unpack the wound.

My stomach knots.

A jagged piece of bone has punched through his skin, leaking blood like a faulty faucet. He’s also sporting an angry rope burn around his wrist and hand.

Pressing the sodden lumps of gauze back into place to stem the flow of blood, I retrieve everything I need from the med box and set my supplies atop a small wooden crate beside his cot. I look between the different instruments and frown. “Wait here.”

“Where else would I go?” he tremors, lips nudging into a wan smile.

I rush to the back of the room, though as I pass the end cot, I feel the probe of someone’s gaze against the side of my face, down the lines of my body.

Pausing, I seek the source.

Vanth is seated on the edge of a bed—shirt undone to the sternum, hair askew, azure eyes snatching my breath like a phantom hand sliding around my throat.

Tightening.

There’s blood dripping down his face from the meaty gash through his eyebrow and up into his hairline, a bottle of rum snagged in his grip and hanging between his wide-open thighs. He leans back, tips his head against the wall, and watches me from below heavy lids as he draws a deep glug.

There’s something in his leer that’s hard for me to rip away from, but I do, barreling down the steps toward the galley on the lowest deck. The last three are immersed, and I’m forced to slow as I wade into the murky water.

I pluck a path to the galley, the water peppered with rolled oats and bobbing apples that bump against my legs as I rifle through the drawers. Finding two wooden spoons, I head back toward the stairs, footsteps hurried when my bare feet hit the deck of the infirmary.

Standing beside Jerid’s cot again, I dig into my pocket, and pull out a piece of damp night bark. “It’ll help with the pain.”

His eyes flash with relief before he opens his mouth and lets me place it on his tongue, which surprises me. He’s not the first person I’ve offered this bit of bark to.

He is the first person not to screw up his face or tell me pain relief is for pussies.

While I wait for him to work through it, I pour alcohol on my hands, thread a needle, and fire the tip—ignoring the swarm of fluttering nerves in my belly.

“Now, bite down on this,” I say, weaving the handle of a wooden spoon between his teeth while he flicks me an anxious look I try to ignore. The moment his jaw clamps down, I draw a deep glug of rum, wincing at the bulb of fire easing down my throat.

I pull the material from his wound and splash it with alcohol to the haunting tune of his muffled screams. I don’t give him the chance to work through the pain before I grip his arm in two places and wrench the bone back into place.

His howl almost rips a hole in the atmosphere.

Face screwed up, I splint the break with the second spoon, using string to secure it, then stitch the raw edges of his wound together. I’m so busy concentrating I don’t realize he’s passed out until the other spoon clatters onto the floor.

I sponge away the rest of the blood, apply another tip of alcohol, slather the rope burn in a balm made from rendered pig fat, then wrap his arm.

A small, accomplished smile teases the corners of my mouth as I clean my hands and instruments in a bowl of cloudy water. Turning back to the room, I wander between the cots, searching for anyone else that needs attention. Finding nobody, I look in the direction of Vanth’s cot tucked in the corner behind a curtain, then at Alon—still elbow deep in that man’s innards.

“Crap,” I mutter, drawing a shaky breath.

I gather my stuff in a basket, push my shoulders back, and approach, skin pricking the moment I cross into his line of sight.

“Is it just the head wound?” I ask, rifling through my med box.

He chugs a draw of rum, his eyes clinging to me as he drains half the bottle.

Right.

“It needs to be cleaned, then I’ll stitch it up.” I dampen some cheesecloth with a tip of alcohol and fish out the needle, threading the eye before sparking a match and firing the tip. “Do you want something to bite down on?” I ask, shaking out the flame.

He takes another swig.

His legs are spread so far apart, the only spot for me to stand is right between them. Trying not to show how uncomfortable I am with his power play, I clear my throat, step forward, and dab at his face, swiping away the blood.

He doesn’t flinch—not even when I begin threading the fine needle through his flesh, tugging the torn edges together in tidy increments.

The wound is a long, messy gash, requiring every ounce of my concentration. So when his rusty voice breaks the silence, I almost jump right out of my skin.

“Our High Master told us to protect your virtue,” he slurs. “But I find it hard to believe you and Rhordyn weren’t fucking.”

The words pierce me, and I pause, looking into his vacant stare, watching his pupils tighten as he draws his focus to my face.

“I saw the way he looked at you.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile laced with poison. “Like a man who’s already staked his claim. Torn your seams wide open.”

The only seams Rhordyn ever tore were the seams of my heart.

I shove the needle into Vanth’s head, feeling it collide with bone. He jerks back, hissing through clenched teeth.

“Oops.” I grab his head, pull him close again, and continue stitching. “Sorry. I’m new to this.”

He lifts the bottle and drains it, blowing his breath all over my face when he says, “How did you not learn to stitch? Most women know, and I saw the way you spent your days. It’s not like you lacked the time to learn.”

“I was too busy fucking Rhordyn,” I mutter dryly, tugging the next stitch so taught the skin puckers.

“Slut,” he slurs, swaying to his own tide as I stitch and tug, stitch and tug. “I wonder ... do you fuck dirty?”

My heart lurches into my throat, and I still for a moment before regaining my composure. “You’ll never know.”

I continue to stitch—faster now—eager to tie him off and be done.

Vanth’s energy seems to swell, like he can smell my vulnerability beneath my hardened exterior. I become painfully aware of my position between his legs—of his eyes leveled with my chest.

Of this space, so cut off from the rest of the crew.

“I saw him carry you away, you know. Saw you return wearing his shirt.” His hands slither down the length of his thighs, settling on his knees, and something inside me pulls tight. “I’ve seen you sniffing that pillow slip.”

I stop, needle half threaded through a messy lip of torn flesh.

Slowly—so fucking slowly—I let my gaze track down the crooked line of his cross-stitched wound to settle on his eyes.

In them, I see deep-seated pain, malicious intent, and a spark of fire I wish I was blind to.

The moment stretches, the smell of rum thick on his steady breath as I wait to see what else he has to throw at me.

“My High Master is not merciful,” he whispers, though the words still gouge my skin. “Not when it comes to traitors.”

“I’m no traitor.”

“Perhaps not.” He shrugs, lifting his left brow, making his stitches pull enough to dribble blood down the side of his face. “Perhaps I should present him with the evidence and see what he has to say.”

His words land like boulders on my chest.

I open my mouth to speak, close it, stiffening when I feel something feather up the back of my thigh ... over the curve of my ass ...

“Or perhaps ...”

My spine stiffens, blood chilling.

“Perhaps what, Vanth?”

“We come to some sort of arrangement,” he’s quick to respond.

Heart in my throat, I repress the urge to shiver.

To scream.

Instead, I drop into a dark, dead place deep inside that’s immune to the pain of my past, present, and future, feeling my face wipe clean of all emotion. Feeling my heart do just the same.

I break from his gaze, getting back to the task at hand—quick, efficient stitches. I tie off the thread, then use my snips to cut it free before I shove forward a step, pressing close enough to Vanth’s crotch that I feel his raging manhood hard against my thigh.

His eyes widen with a flash of excitement.

I settle the sharp tip of my snips against his swollen cock, and he sucks a breath through bared teeth—a hiss of surprise that gives me too much satisfaction.

I put my lips to his ear, letting them coast his skin as I whisper, “How about this ...”

I push a little harder.

Dig a little deeper.

“You keep your slithering fingers to yourself and I won’t snip your dick off.”

His hand drops like a rock, and I shove back, pocketing the scissors and flexing my fingers. I hold his gaze like it’s some sort of conquest, reveling in the bead of sweat that darts down his temple.

“You think you’re special?” he sneers.

“I think you’re grieving, and I think you’re drunk.”

He laughs low—a boiling sound that would scald if I could feel. “And whose fault is that?”

Mine.

All mine.

Fissures crackle across my shield.

I reach into my pocket, retrieve a piece of night bark, and hold it out.

His eyes flick down. “What’s that?”

“You need to sleep off that bottle of rum.”

He shoves up and smacks the bark from my hand, spitting at my feet as he elbows past and weaves a wobbled path toward the stairs, the back of his shirt stained with dark blotches of blood. It’s only once he’s out of eyesight that I pull from the inky depths of my emotionless sea—posture crumbling.

My hands shake, knees threaten to buckle. It suddenly feels like the ship’s caught in a wild swell, though I know that’s not the case.

It’s just my world that’s tipping.

Churning.

Using the wall as a crutch, I reach behind my arm and pinch the softest piece of skin I can find.

Hard.

The bite of pain distracts my mind, anchoring me in place while Baze’s parting words echo in my ears ...

You don’t know what it’s like out there, Orlaith.

He’s never been more right.

At Castle Noir, I spent years learning the erratic shape of the halls—tumbling, bruising my knees until I’d pinpointed each gouged divot and uneven slab that could trip me up.

That raw, burdened castle became my home. My sanctuary.

My safe space.

Now … I’m back to being blind.