He gives me a sideways smile, undeterred. “I see a lot in a lot of things, Mr. Madman. It’s a gift of mine.”
“Mr. Madman?” I echo, arching a brow. “Is that what you’re calling me now?”
“Do you dislike it?”
I let the thought roll over. Do I? The name feels fitting. I shake my head. “Suppose not. But gift or no gift, belief alone won’t save us from what’s coming. The Trials don’t care about hope, or love, or some noble trust in each other. They chew up anything that’snot strong or ruthless enough to survive. They demand cunning, not fairy tales.”
It’s his turn to shrug. “Maybe you’re right. But if that’s how it is, then why am I here?” His head tilts, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Because you believe she chose you for this, don’t you?”
“I do.” The words slip out before I can mask the confidence in them. Faith or not, I am tied to this path.
“Then if she chose you, she chose me too.” He gestures around, to the ship, the crew. “She chose Miss Captain, Mr. Zayan, this ship, and everything in between. And I’m sorry, but I’m nothing without love or hope. That’s who I am.”
There’s a truth in his eyes, a damnable honesty. He’s right about the goddess choosing us, I’ll give him that. But the rest? The idea that we’re here to prove some point about love and trust banishing all darkness?
Bullshit.
“If anything, the lot of you are here to mess with me,” I say, looking away and working my jaw left to right.
He laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that cuts through cynicism like butter, full and free of any bitterness. It’s unsettling, that happiness of his—so damn unflinching.
“Oh, isn’t that awfully egocentric of you, Mr. Madman?”
I snort, fighting back a smile. “Whoever said I wasn’t?”
“Fair point,” he admits with a grin, leaning back against the crate with a casual stretch. “But think about it this way: maybe the goddess had a grand plan when she threw us all into this swirling mess. Maybe she saw something in each of us that could balance the rest, you know? Like, you’re the steadfast one—focused, driven, always steering the ship ahead. They’re... well, they’re professionals at connecting with each other, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” He glances away with a teasing smirk, then taps his chest lightly. “And me? Perhaps I’m here to remind everyoneof the little things—hope, love, and, let’s be honest, the unspoken art of a good roll in the sheets. Nothing quite like it to bind people so tightly that not even a hurricane can tear them apart.”
It takes everything not to laugh in his face, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s so naive or because, deep down, I half wish he was right. But the words stick in my throat, and before I know it, I’m just sitting here, silent.
And then, when another wave of moans rolls over, I just get up and leave.
Vinicola stays put, still lounging on the floor for a couple of minutes more before he gets up and follows me, too.
I watch through narrowed eyes as Gypsy and Zayan enter Ridley’s room, looking as disheveled as they did after that lightning storm, fighting for their lives and nearly losing them to me.
Gypsy’s hair is a wild, tangled mess, clothes clinging in disarray, and there’s a flush in her cheeks—a gleam in her eye—that makes it obvious she’s still basking in the afterglow. The cripple’s no better: just as battered, but walking with a confidence that wasn’t there before.
Funny what some pussy will do for some men. Even his limp seems lighter now.
They pass me without a glance, locked in their own little bubble, oblivious to anything beyond each other. Gypsy leads, Zayan’s eyes trailing down her ass, as though he hasn’t had enough.
“And here I thought one of you might’ve died back there,” I remark, watching as they settle across from me and Vinicola, while Ridley stands by his desk, ever the sentry.
Zayan’s eyes flicker, a glint of something close to irritation, but it vanishes as fast as it appears. “Jealous, Rancour?” he taunts, the cockiness oozing from him like he’s got the world figured out now.
Figures. Men like him only need a warm body and a bit of adrenaline to feel complete. Food in their bellies, a woman beneath them, and they think the world’s back in order. There’s a simplicity in that I almost envy.
“No need,” I reply, voice dripping with disdain. “Unlike you, I became a man a long time ago. But hey, good for you. Every boy has to experience that sweetness at least once, no matter how late he gets around to it.”
Zayan’s jaw clenches, a flash of that territorial fire sparking up. Then he glances at Gypsy and softens, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face, like he’s proven some point only he understands.
Before I get a chance to push further, just to test if this ease is real or an act, Ridley clears his throat. He unfurls a worn map across the table, its edges frayed from years of rough handling, and the air in the room thickens. Everything changes.
Gypsy’s out of her seat before the map even lies flat, her eyes devouring every line. Zayan shifts, drawn in despite himself. Vinicola bites his lip, looking half-starved. Meanwhile, I feel that old, cold box deep inside me start to shake, the vile things locked within scraping against the edges, clawing for release.
They always do when I see this map.
Gypsy, Zayan, and Vinicola may not know it yet, but Ridley and I are about to unveil things we’ve chased for years. Pieces of history, fragments of power hidden within the seas—a knowledge few have survived to tell.
