Chapter 42 I want this
Fisk lets me go as I begin hacking the sea out of myself. I struggle to keep myself upright. I press my cheek to the wet boards and laugh.
Actually laughed. A Madwoman’s laughter. Because I’d done it.
I’d done it.
Bram crouched in front of me looking murderous.
“You trying to die, girl?” His voice cracked. I managed a grin through coughing.
“No, I was trying to get home.”
His face twisted. Then he smacked my back so hard it nearly folded me. Causing more of the ocean to spill out of me.
“You little hellion.”
Somewhere above, Reed was hanging halfway out the rigging, white as sailcloth.
“Oh My Stars! You Did It! You Made it!” he shouted.
I raised a hand. Perhaps it was a gesture of triumph. Or perhaps I couldn't feel my legs. The crew gathered around me. They stared. Some thought it was funny. Others were shocked. It was as if I had emerged from a myth, dripping with seawater.
Then I looked up. And saw him.
Fisk.
He stood apart, a statue carved from simmering rage. The air around him felt tight, charged with a tension so palpable you could almost hear the snap of strained muscle. Every line of his body was pulled taut, a drawn bowstring ready to release. His fists, white-knuckled, balled at his sides, and his jaw was a rigid block of defiance. A storm raged in his eyes, a furious tempest that belied the icy tremor of raw fear beneath.
My trembling legs gave way as I pushed myself to my feet. A torrent of cold water streamed off me, soaking the already drenched fabric of my dress. It clung to my skin, heavy and indecent, while strands of wet hair slapped against my lips.
I didn’t care.
I staggered straight toward him. He didn’t move this time. He didn’t seem to breathe.
“You left me,” I said.
My voice came raw as torn rope. He stared. Jaw flexing. Then, absurdly, he said,
“You’re wet.”
I barked out a broken laugh.
“You’re observant.”
His throat moved. He seemed to have needed a moment. Raw broken emotion shown in his bright green eyes.
“You could have drowned.”
Anger blazed through me so hot it burned away the cold. I shoved his chest.
Hard.
"How dare you!" I gasped. Gasps echoed around us. I jabbed my finger into his chest. He just stared. "How dare you leave me!" Nobody moved. Nobody dared. "You decided to leave me. You chose my fate for me." A broken sob escaped me.
Fisk’s eyes, once flat, now held a spark. I saw a hairline fracture appear in his stern expression, a small, dangerous, beautiful revelation blooming on his face.
“Didn’t want to leave you,” he said quietly.
The words hit harder than the sea. I swallowed.
“But you did.”
His hand came up before I realized he meant to touch me. Knuckles brushed soaked hair from my cheek. A touch so soft it nearly ruined me.
“I was trying to save you.”
His voice, a guttural rasp like crumbling stone, sang a song of utter wreckage. Each strained syllable vibrated with the raw, exposed nerve of his deep care, a melody of his own pain that pierced me. And oh, how I hated the sharp, agonizing echo of that hurt, a physical ache that resonated within my own chest.
And I believed him. I hated myself for that.
“Then stop deciding what saves me.”
His mouth twitched. Pain and admiration all tangled together. Behind me Bram bellowed an order and the crew finally scattered, pretending not to have witnessed whatever this was.
But Fisk stayed.
Of course he stayed.
His boots nudged mine, the rough leather a faint rasp against my own. A wave of warmth radiated from him, a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to my clothes, a palpable heat seeping through the sodden fabric.
“You impossible woman.”
His words ghosted over my skin. I lifted my chin.
“You love the impossible.”
His breath hitched, a faint, sharp sound in the stillness. I saw the way his eyes widened, the subtle ripple of his chest, all triggered by those few spoken words.
For one wild second I thought he might kiss me right there in front of God and crew and the open sea.
Instead his hand closed around my arm, Not ownership, Not command, Relief. He leaned near my ear.
“If you ever do that again…”
“What?” I looked at him wided eyed and confused.
He looked at me. Those eyes. Storm-green and wreckage. I loved his eyes.
“I’m jumping after you… again,and punish you for scaring me.”
My heart turned traitor. I smiled slow and wicked.
“Then maybe I will.”
Something almost like a laugh escaped him. Then he dragged me toward the hatch before my shaking legs gave out.
Below deck the air wrapped warm around me. Lantern light swung gold. The Ghost groaned beneath our feet as she caught deeper wind.
He shoved a blanket at me and turned his back while I peeled off drenched clothes with numb fingers.
Even then he guarded my modesty.
Even now.
That nearly undid me worse than drowning.
When I wrapped myself in wool he was leaning against the bulkhead, head bowed.
I studied the broad slope of his shoulders.
The man who tried to leave me.
The man who could not.
“You could have died,” he said again. Softer. As if saying it to himself.
I stepped closer. My knees brushed him.
“So could you.”
His eyes snapped up, sharp and bright as newly honed blades, glinting in the dim light.
“Not before you.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the air thick and still. My breath caught, shallow and uncertain. He settled beside me, the faint warmth of his body pressing close. Our thighs brushed—barely, yet enough to send a quiet spark through the hush.
His hand, rough and warm, trembled slightly as it found mine, a familiar comfort. My fingers intertwined with his, a silent acknowledgment. He gazed at our clasped hands, his eyes wide with a peculiar wonder, as if they held an unexpected power.
Above us, the crew thundered across the deck, their footsteps pounding against the wood. The sharp crack of sails whipped through the salty air. The Ghost surged forward, cutting through the churning waves, heading toward the open sea, toward the brewing storm, toward whatever awaited beyond.
I leaned my head briefly against his shoulder. And whispered, Just once.
“I want this. I want you.”
A stolen confession.
He just stayed still, didn't joke around, didn't breathe, and just let me be.
And in that salt-dark belly of the ship, wrapped in wool and danger and him, I understood something terrible. I had not jumped for treasure. Or freedom. Or pride.
I had jumped because he was leaving. And I would rather drown beside him than live ashore without him.