I raised an eyebrow, still pretending to focus on the horizon.
“And then I stopped by the galley, because you didn’t come fetch your evening meal again. It’s sky-high stew.” He pulled his knapsack closer. “Sage let me bring it to you, thank the goddesses. Last time he said he doesn’t let anyone take other people’s portions, but I guess he trusts me now?”
The words tumbled out of him so fast I couldn’t form a response. He opened the knapsack, and the rich aroma of Sage’s signature dish hit me like a physical force—rich, meaty, with hints of herb.
“I’ve been too busy to eat,” I managed, but my treacherous stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly.
Ghost threw his head back and laughed, pure joy lighting up his features. The moonlight caught his face at just the rightangle, turning his freckles into a personal constellation scattered across his pale skin. They trailed down his neck, disappearing beneath his loose shirt collar. I found myself wondering if those freckles continued across his—
“Reaper?”
The name jolted me from my thoughts like a bucket of ice water. Something twisted in my gut, bitter and sharp. I’d grown to hate that name, especially coming from his lips. It felt wrong, like a wall between us, reminding me of everything I had to be, everything I couldn’t do.
“Are you alright? You need to eat.”
Ghost pressed the wooden bowl into my hands, a wooden spoon following. The aroma hit me again. My stomach twisted with hunger, and I gave in, shoveling the stew into my mouth.
The flavors exploded across my tongue. You could always trust Sage to turn whatever scraps we had into something incredible. I devoured half the bowl before coming up for air.
“You can’t go around asking what my favorite food is, you know,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Sage. “People might get ideas.”
Ghost grinned, batting those light eyelashes at me with exaggerated innocence. “Oh? How so?”
I groaned, scraping the bottom of the bowl. “Don’t make me regret not making you kraken bait.”
“And what are you going to do if I don’t stop?” His voice took on a teasing lilt. “Smash my head into the mast again?”
The spoon froze halfway to my mouth. My appetite vanished as if I’d swallowed lead. The memory of his head hitting the wood, the way his face had crumpled—
“Ah, dragon balls! I’m sorry.” Ghost’s voice softened. “It was meant to be a joke. But it wasn’t very funny.”
I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t look at him.
“You know,” Ghost ventured after a moment, “the others tell the wildest tales about you. About the Reaper.”
My jaw ticked. I could only imagine the tales he’d heard, because like all urban legends, the stories changed with the winds, growing more outlandish with each passing year.
My personal favorite involved me supposedly wrestling a kraken bare-handed during a thunderstorm. According to that particular yarn, I’d strangled it with its own tentacles.
The newest crew members whispered that I collected the souls of those who crossed me, storing them in glass jars beneath my bunk. A few even believed the tale about me fighting off a hydra with nothing but a kitchen knife.
Then there were the darker rumors. That I’d betrayed my own crew for gold. That I’d sacrificed innocents to gain unholy powers. That my mechanical leg housed the trapped spirit of a demon, giving me supernatural strength at the cost of my humanity. Others swore I’d made a deal with death itself, trading my leg for immortality.
The truth was far more mundane and far more painful. But I preferred the legends. They kept the crew in line without me having to actually hurt anyone. Most days.
Ghost shifted beside me, and I wondered which version of Reaper he saw when he looked at me.
“But I don’t believe them,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. “I don’t believe any of it.”
I turned to face him fully, our eyes meeting in the starlit darkness. His green eyes held mine, unflinching, searching. The moment stretched between us like a taut rope, neither willing to look away first.
“Then whatdoyou believe?” The words came out rougher than intended.
Ghost’s lips curved into a sad smile. “That you want to be here as much as I do. That’s to say, not at all.”
The words hit like unexpected turbulence. I jerked back, a small part of me saddened that he hated it here so much. Though that should’ve been obvious.
“You’re not entirely correct,” I told him.
