Chapter 33 A Mark Gone Wrong
By the end of the week, the bar had learned me—and I had learned it right back.
I didn’t have to look anymore. Not at the floor, not at the shelves, not at the hands that reached where they shouldn’t. I knew who would leave coins heavy and honest on the counter, and who would try to leave with more than they paid for. I knew which men smiled with their mouths and which ones smiled with their eyes—and which ones didn’t smile at all.
I felt the pinch before it happened now.
Shifted just enough that wandering fingers met wood instead of me. Or my elbow. Or the sharp edge of a tray.
They learned fast.
Most of them.
The innkeeper’s keys brushed against my hip once when I passed too close behind him. The weight of them was familiar before I’d even touched them. My fingers moved without asking permission—two quick breaths, a lift, a slide—Gone.
I held them for half a heartbeat, feeling the shape of each one press into my palm.
Then slipped them back. He never noticed. I didn’t know why that mattered.
Only that it did.
—
Fisk was never there in the mornings.
I’d step out into the gray light with my tray, and the space where he usually leaned would be empty, like he’d never been there at all. By night, he came back.
Always.
Sometimes with a new story already sitting on his tongue, waiting for me to ask. Sometimes quieter, like the day had taken more than it had given.
Always with something for me.
A coin carved down the middle. A scrap of lace too fine for the docks. A button that gleamed like it belonged on a coat I’d never wear.
I told myself they didn’t mean anything.
Still kept every one.
—
The night he came back bleeding, I knew before I saw him.
Something in the room shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. Just—wrong.
I turned, tray still in my hands, and there he was in the doorway, one shoulder dipped lower than the other, his step uneven.
Blood cut a dark line down the side of his face.
I didn’t think.
The tray hit the bar harder than I meant it to. A few heads turned, but I was already moving.
“Fisk.”
His name came out sharper than I intended.
He straightened a fraction when he saw me, like he could hide it if he tried hard enough.
Didn’t fool me.
I grabbed his arm before he could say anything, fingers closing tight around his sleeve.
“Come on.”
He didn’t argue.
That was how I knew it was bad. No smart comment to get under my skin. Not even a flirty one to make me blush. Just cold stone resolve. Like all his energy was to get back to me.
I pulled him behind the bar, into the narrow space where the light didn’t reach as harshly, where the smell of spilled ale and citrus peels wrapped around us like a shield.
“Sit,” I said.
He did.
Slowly.
I was already reaching for a cloth, dunking it into the basin, wringing it out with hands that didn’t feel as steady as they should.
“What happened?” The words came out clipped, breath too tight in my chest.
He shrugged.
Winced when it pulled at the cut.
“Deal went sideways,” he said, like it was nothing. “Man didn’t like losing.”
“Clearly.”
I stepped closer before I could stop myself. Closer than I needed to be. The blood had started to dry at the edges, sticky and dark. It traced the curve of his brow, caught in the stubble along his temple.
I pressed the cloth to it.
He hissed, sharp through his teeth, his hand coming up on instinct before he caught himself and let it fall again.
“Hold still,” I muttered.
My fingers steadied against his jaw.
Warm.
“Knife?” I asked, softer now.
“Mm.” He tilted his head just enough to make it easier for me. “He drew first.”
“And you?”
His mouth curved, faint and crooked. “Faster.”
Idiot.
The word sat on my tongue before I let it out.
“Idiot,” I said, but it came out quieter than I meant, my thumb brushing just beneath the cut to clear away the last of the blood.
Relief curled under it, unwanted and stubborn. He leaned into my hand.
Just a fraction. Barely there. But I felt it. Felt the shift of his weight, the way his breath slowed, like he’d decided, for one reckless second, to trust me with more than he should.
“It’s nice,” he said, voice lower now, “you worrying about me.”
My hand stilled.
Heat climbed up my neck before I could stop it. I pulled the cloth away, maybe a little too fast.
“Don’t get used to it.”
A lie.
We both heard it.
His grin came slow this time, softer around the edges, like he wasn’t trying as hard to hide behind it.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said.
But he didn’t move. Not right away. His eyes stayed on mine, steady, searching, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.
I stepped back first.
Needed the space. The air.
“You should get some sleep,” I said, turning away before I could say something worse.
“Commanding now, are we?”
I didn’t look at him. “Go.”
A beat.
Then the scrape of the bench. The uneven step as he pushed himself upright.
I heard the shift in his weight as he moved toward the stairs, slower than usual.
I looked anyway.
Couldn’t help it.
He caught me watching.
Of course he did.
He dipped into something like a bow—too formal, too exaggerated for the narrow space, his mouth tilting just enough to make it a joke.
“Your concern is noted,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt too tight to answer properly.
Then he turned and went, one hand brushing the wall as he climbed, his limp more pronounced now that he thought no one was watching.
I stood there longer than I meant to.
My palm pressed flat against the stone edge of the bar, cold seeping into my skin.
Grounding.
He disappeared at the top of the stairs.
I didn’t move.
—
I didn’t sleep.
I never really did.
But that night, when I finally lay down, the ribbon was still in my hair, the knot loose from the day but holding.
I didn’t take it out. My hand went to the ribbon. Curled around it. Just like I used to with my mother’s ring.
The ache in my chest didn’t vanish.
Just—shifted.
Dulled at the edges, like something wrapped around it to keep it from cutting too deep.
—
Some nights, after the last call, I went back to the table.
Our table.
I told myself it wasn’t that. That it was just a place to sit. Still, I chose the same seat every time. I spread the things he’d given me out in front of me, one by one.
The comb. Smooth under my fingers, the shells catching the light.
The ribbon, blue and soft, edges worn where I’d twisted it too often.
The scrap of silk, fine enough that it slipped through my hands if I wasn’t careful.
I lined them up like they meant something.
Like they could tell me something if I stared at them long enough.
A pattern. A reason. A promise.
My fingers hovered over them, tracing without touching.
It never added up.
Never became anything more than small, quiet pieces of something I didn’t understand. Maybe a sort of distraction. But why?
Still my hand drifted to my throat. To the place where the ring should have been.
Empty.
The skin there felt wrong without it. Too bare. Too exposed. I pressed my fingers there, like I could feel its shape if I tried hard enough.
Nothing.
Just the echo of it.
I dropped my hand. The silence stretched. I thought about the sea then. About the way it called, low and endless, even when you tried not to listen. I wondered if it would call me back. If I’d answer. If I wanted to. The thought sat heavy.
Unanswered.
Outside, the first hints of gray crept through the cracks in the shutters, thin and cold.
I poured myself another drink.
Propped my feet up on the bench across from me, the wood worn smooth where boots had rested for years.
Waited.
For the light. For the day. For something to break the quiet before it got too comfortable. It always did. It always would