He blinks, stands up straighter. “What am I sorry for?”
I make sure my words are clear and do my best not to raise my voice. “You don’t get to decide how to treat me based on what your mood is. I don’t care about your gratitude; I don’t need it. You’re a member of my crew, and I would try to save anyone who fell overboard during a storm. But your reaction was completely unwarranted. Yes, I broke a promise, but I saved you and everything was okay.”
His crossed arms rise as his muscles tighten, but I press on. “You pouted in your self-righteous anger until our lives were in danger. ‘It doesn’t seem all that important when we’re fighting for our lives’?” I quote back at him as a question.
“Alosa—”
“I’m not finished.”
He snaps his mouth shut.
“You’re not allowed to turn me away when I’m at the height of vulnerability, then be furious at me for rescuing you, then touch and kiss me and spout off your feelings when it suits you. I want answers for why you behaved the way you did. And I want my damned apology, and I want it now!”
He uncrosses his arms. “May I speak now?”
I nod at him so I don’t plunge into another tirade.
“I’ve been selfish,” he says, “but so have you.”
Through bared teeth: “That’s not how an apology sounds.”
“You had your chance to talk. Now it’s my turn. Throwing yourself at me when your world comes crashing down around you? Selfish. You were trying to use me. I wanted more from you than that.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that he said wanted. Past tense.
“I meant what I said on the cannibal island. When we were fighting for our lives, I realized I didn’t want to be angry with you. You might say my response to that realization was … hasty.”
The memory of his lips on the back of my neck surfaces.
“But before,” he says, “after you rescued me from the sea, you might say I was at the height of vulnerability. I needed time to sort out my own past and come to terms with it.”
I’m silent, hoping he’ll offer me an explanation without my prompting. When he doesn’t, I ask, “What happened?” as gently as I can so as not to scare him off.
“I spent much of my early years not having control over anything.” He closes his eyes, perhaps trying to block out the memories. When he opens them again, he says, “My father dictated when I could eat, when I could sleep, when I could piss—it didn’t matter how hard I begged or pleaded. He hated me and did whatever he could to show it, preferring to make me suffer than kill me. There were times—few though they were—when I would do something that pleased him. He’d promise never to strike me again. Of course, those were lies.
“I won’t get into the details of everything he did to me. Suffice it to say, Jeskor was a bastard. I still carry those scars. The fears of a little boy trying to trust his own father not to hurt him. When you used your abilities on me, when I specifically asked you not to, I was reminded of that time. Those scars came to the surface. I remembered broken promises. Beatings, lashings, starvation. I remembered it all, felt manipulated all over again. I’m sorry for what I said and how I behaved. I just needed time to remember you’re not him. You didn’t save me to be cruel.”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Then why did you save me?” he asks.
The question is so bizarre, I almost don’t answer him. “Because you’re part of my crew. I watch after my own.”
He’s quiet, staring me down. “Is that all?”
There are words he wants me to say. Words I should say. But I can’t allow myself to think them, let alone say them. My mind is as blank as my mouth is dry.
“That’s twice I’ve been honest with you, Alosa. Twice I’ve made myself vulnerable to you. That’s supposed to go both ways.”
When I still can’t say anything, he leaves.
Chapter 14
THE WIND STOPS, completely locking us in place after another few days of sailing. The weather can be like that. Wild and deadly one day. Nonexistent the next. In many ways, it’s even worse than being caught in a storm, especially when one is racing against the deadliest man on the sea. Just like that, the lead we’ve obtained after fixing the mast starts to dissipate.
I give the crew chores so none can dwell on our dire straits. I send them below to clean their bunks. Trianne takes a few of the girls to help her tidy up the galley, and the deck is in desperate need of swabbing after the storm. Radita finally has the chance to fix up the mast just the way she would like it.
But it doesn’t take more than a day to clean the ship to perfection. I’m itching out of my skin.
“Kearan! Why aren’t you at the helm? Get over to the aftercastle.”
“And do what? Spin us in circles?”
“Just try to look busy!”
He is busy, though. He spends his time doing more push-ups and stretches. He does heavy lifting around the ship, and I’ve even seen him traversing up and down the stairs leading belowdecks. Not because he’s going anywhere, but because he’s strengthening his legs. Before, he was grizzly-looking with a wild beard, had lazy fat rolls, and had the stench of a drunk permeating off him. Now he actually looks his age: nineteen.
He’s not handsome—nothing could fix that—but he’s healthy, sturdy. His eyes are still too far apart, his nose still broken and badly set. But every bulge on his skin is now muscle. The crew can stand to be within ten feet of him, and he’s clearheaded in a way that makes him even more useful. I thought maybe the changes would cause him to stare at Sorinda less, but there is no change there.
Deshel comes up top through the hatch. Alone. And all I can think about is how she was always in the company of her sister, the two of them giggling at some private joke.
I lost a crew member on this voyage, and I will probably lose more before it is over. My own father is hunting me, and I’m not entirely sure what he will do if he catches me. My crew I know he will kill. Slowly. And me? Will he try to persuade me to his side again? Or will he even bother? Maybe my neck is already marked for a noose.
I’m fleeing one parent and returning to another, but what kind of reception will I receive from my mother? I doubt she knows me anymore. She is back in the water, and all humans will be prey to her. I may be her daughter, but will that matter if she is a mindless sea beast?
And then Riden—
No, I am not going to think of Riden.
The next morning, the skies are still empty of wind, but a fog fills the space instead. Roslyn can barely see the deck of the ship from up in the crow’s nest. The ocean itself is against us now.
Enwen spouts off surefire ways to get rid of the fog.
“Toss three coins into the sea, Captain. One for the stars, one for the sky, and one for the ocean,” he says.
“What need have they for money?”
“It’s not about need, it’s about showing reverence.”