“Think you could taste it again?”
And there it is—the same damned thought that’s haunted me since the moment I laid eyes on her. This time, I let it slip.
“Gypsy Flint, you’re going to be the death of me.”
All she does is laugh.
27
Fabien
“Isn’t that what real love sounds like?” Vini murmurs, glancing over at me with a wistful smile as he sits on a crate just a few feet from the Captain’s quarters. His gaze is soft, almost dreamy, fixed somewhere beyond the ship’s railing. He doesn’t need to say who he’s talking about. I can hear them perfectly fine. “Oh, to be one of them. Doesn’t that appeal to you at all?”
“No,” I grunt, the response slipping out before I can even consider it. Instantly, regret creeps in. Locking those two in there together… this was supposed to be about making them a team, not giving them an excuse to… well, dothis.
This was meant to be simple: we’re supposed to face the Trials together. For that, we need to function as a crew—at least, the three of them do. I never planned to be anything more than an extra set of hands, a spare part they tolerate, maybe even respect, but still an outsider. I have no interest in bonding, and I’m certainly not interested in… whatever they’re doing in there.
Another muffled moan filters through the door, sending a fresh surge of irritation crawling up my spine. I don’t wantto admit how thoroughly I underestimated the mess between Gypsy and Zayan. What I expected was shouting, maybe a brawl and some bruises—not fucking. I hadn’t figured that “sorting things out” would come tofucking.
Sure, Zayan’s interest was obvious from the start—he practically oozes intent every time he’s near her. And Gypsy… well, she didn’t exactly push him away. But to outright fuck?
My mind didn’t even consider it as a possibility to as far they might go together. But now, here I am, listening to them like a fool, wondering how I could’ve been so off the mark.
Gypsy and Zayan aren’t much younger than me, but somehow, this makes me feel ancient. When was the last time I heard a woman cry out like that within earshot? I can’t remember. Even the sound feels alien to me now, like it belongs in another lifetime, another world.
Actually... when was the last time I even fucked someone? I vaguely remember a phase I had as a teenager. With all that money I had and the tales spreading about me like weeds in good soil, women pressed themselves onto me without a second thought.
But then I wised up. I saw what they were after, the glint of gold more intoxicating to them than any affection I could give. And with that came the end of it all—along with my respect for sex.
Because that’s all sex is, really—a distraction that gets in the way, taking time and focus from the things that truly matter. It’s a distraction that burns out faster than gunpowder, leaving behind nothing but smoke. Purpose is the only thing that doesn’t fade, the one thing worth chasing. Purpose is all I have, and it’s all I need.
And yet… I’m still flesh and bone, aren’t I? A man, despite it all, with needs I’m not quite immune to. I ignore them, but they never go away, gnawing at the back of my mind even now. I tryto remember the last time I listened to them, but I don’t have an answer.
Vinicola looks over at me, his eyes half-lidded, the smile never leaving his lips. “Then how does love sound to you, Mr. Madman?” he teases, voice laced with a humor that needles at something in me. “If not like this?”
He looks at me the way Ridley sometimes does, a look that suggests there’s something in me beneath all my rage and ruin. And before I can stop myself, I blink, caught off guard, already regretting that split-second lapse.
It’s a mistake. One I can’t claw my way out of, not fast enough.
My mind drags me back to the last time I felt anything close to love—something both damning and precious. Against my better judgment, I peer into the dark, forbidden places I keep locked tight, places I only dare approach in my worst nightmares. And I can feel it—the echo of my misery. And before I can do anything about it, images slice through me, as vivid as the pain I’ve tried so hard to smother.
A hand, stretched out, fingers curling like claws as my mother tries to grip my arm. Panic twists her voice into a sharp, trembling cry, louder than the waves crashing around us. She sees something—a shadow moving beneath the water. My father shoves me forward, pressing me onto the only bit of wood that hasn’t yet been claimed by the sea.
My mother clings to my hand, her fingers slipping with seawater and sweat, her eyes wide, filling with tears that mix with the salt on her cheeks. She looks at me, shoving something cold and hard into my palm, her eyes locking with mine. It’s a key.Thekey.
A piece of metal that feels heavier than anything I’ve held before.
I know what she’s thinking. She knows that I know. It doesn’t matter that we’re holding onto each other; we’re all going to die.
I clench my jaw and swallow hard, forcing the burning tears back into a cage inside me, a searing box that holds it all—the fear, the anger, the pain—trapped. I won’t cry. Not for her to see. Not for the thing circling below to see. I won’t give the ocean the satisfaction of watching me break.
My mother cries enough for the both of us. Her body trembles against me, shuddering with every broken sob that tears itself from her chest, like she’s already letting go. My father, strong and silent, pulls us close. We press our heads together, hugging one last time. I can feel her shaking beneath my skin, and it feels like it’s clawing at my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.
It forces the air out of my lungs.
Is this what it feels like to drown? Is this the same pain Mom and Dad feel? Is this why she shakes so much? Because of the pain? I’d take away her pain if I could. I’d feel it doubled instead. Because I love her.
My hand tightens around the key, the metal biting into my palm, and I look down at my mother. “Mom,” I whisper, my voice lost in the roar of the waves. “Don’t cry. Just close your eyes… Let me be the one to look into the water.”
