Vinicola
The man with piercing green eyes, Zayan,definitelydoesn’t like me. He’s made that obvious from the moment he leaped onto the ship like a madman. Now is no exception. He leans against the wooden wall of the ship, arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face as I struggle to lift a chest from the water.
The chest is heavier than I anticipated, waterlogged, and cumbersome. My arms ache, and the damn thing is slippery, but I just grit my teeth and bend my knees for support. The scary pirate behind me doesn’t move to help. He just watches, his gaze cutting through me like a knife.
“Art is pain, huh?” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery. But the joke is on him. I know what his real problem is with me.
I manage to haul the crate and put it on a barrel.
“Art is pain because art is love, Mister Zayan,” I tell him, breathing heavily. “And love doesn’t choose, no?”
He doesn’t expect this. His eyes flick to Miss Captain who is searching on the far end of the space. He can’t help himself. Then, he glares at me again, and I meet his stare, eyebrows lifted.
Oh yeah, I know what you’re about.
“Whatever you think you know, you know nothing,” he whispers angrily.
Doubtful. I know love when I see it. It’s been enchanting me since I can remember. Life without love feels hollow; it’s the strongest force that propels us all. What’s between this man and Miss Captain? It’s as obvious as the sunrise.
Yet, he’s delicate in matters of the heart—not physically, but emotionally. I can see that, too. He doesn’t seem like the kind who freely shares his feelings. Well, I don’t want to widen the gap between us any further, but I just can’t help but probe a little.
“I think it’s incredibly heroic, what you did. When you leapt onto this ship, I thought for sure you’d die! But your passion—it gave you wings! You soared like a hawk, and when you faced me, the way your eyes jumped to—“
“You—“ he snaps, pushing off the wall and advancing toward me.I’m pretty surehis eyes didn’t jump to me, I think. But I don’t say another word. He might hit me if I do. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He’s delicate. Oh, very delicate. I have to be careful with this man. But my tongue itches to ask him questions. Each one is pushing onto my mind harder than the last.How did it feel to jump over that abyss? Did his heart feel like giving out when he looked her in her eyes? Was he ready to die for her right then and there?
Instead, I swallow them down, and settle for, “You’re right. I probably don’t.”
I step back, giving him space, and turn my attention to the chest. My hands shake a little from the effort and tension. Zayan is right behind me, watching my every movement. A hawk was a good metaphor for him. It suits him.
But seconds pass and he doesn’t go back to that wall of his. He hovers over me. So soon enough, naturally, I break.
“I’m just saying,” I add cautiously, whispering, “that it’s clear you care about Miss Captain. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
I don’t look at him. I act like my words are not such a big deal. The delicate types need this kind of handling. A touch of nonchalance, a sprinkle of humility and a pinch of genuine curiosity. Just enough to disarm, not enough to provoke. Unsurprisingly, he bites.
“I made a promise to her father,” he finally mutters, his voice low. “That is all.”
Huh. Interesting. Miss Captain didn’t tell me anything about it. Perhaps she doesn’t know.
“That’s very noble of you,” I reply, nodding.
I busy myself with opening the chest, finding the latch and forcing it open. Inside are a couple of soaked maps.
Why the hell would someone put maps in a chest that weighs a man and a half?!
He huffs, a sound somewhere between frustration and resignation. “You don’t get it.” But he still doesn’t walk away. My empathy radar is tingling. This man needs to let some things off his chest.
My mother always used to say,“If a man keeps everything bottled up inside too long, he’ll start to ferment. And trust me, it won’t be the kind of ferment that turns into fine wine.”Bless her heart, she’s always been a walking vineyard of wisdom—and an actual vineyard owner, too. That’s how I got my name. She named me Vinicola, which means ‘vineyard’ in our language. It’s her favorite word in the whole dictionary.
She was right to name me so. Because, just like wine, I have a way of making people open up.
I glance at Zayan. His eyebrows are furrowed together, a stormy look in his eyes. He folds his arms across his chest.Defiance and annoyance shine bright on his face, but so does unrest. He’s cracking.
But just as he opens his mouth to speak, Miss Captain drops something with a splash and a thud, diverting our attention. She spins around, a triumphant look on her face.
“I think I found it!” she exclaims, striding toward us. She holds up a small, brown, leather notebook, with a golden crest right in the middle of it.
