Vinicola’s grin falters for a split second before he stumbles to his feet, backing away with wide eyes. “What? No, no, no, Mister Zayan, I was only offering my humble services!”
I lean back, arms crossed, watching with amused detachment as Vinicola trips over himself, nearly falling in the sand.
Zayan, though, is relishing this a bit too much. His wicked grin stretches wider as he pulls his dagger from his belt, twirling itwith a flick of his wrist. “Shall I show you my humble services? I’m quite brilliant with a blade.”
Vinicola yelps—a high-pitched squeal that breaks through the night air—and bolts, kicking up sand in his wake. His scream is so absurd that another laugh bursts out of me, short and sharp, louder this time. The kind of laugh that feels strange coming from me, almost foreign, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.
I watch as Zayan gives chase, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance between them while Vinicola flails, arms windmilling like he’s trying to outrun a hurricane. They dart across the beach like children playing tag. Except… it’s a little more rough.
Eventually, the chase dies down, and the two of them collapse onto the sand, breathing hard. I reach for a piece of the fish we’d cooked over the fire, tearing into it without a second thought.
Later, when the meal is nothing but a memory, I clear my throat. “Tomorrow,” I say, “we fix the ship and set sail. We find that privateer wreck, and we get my compass back.”
Saying it out loud feels like sealing a pact, grounding the plan in reality. No more wondering or waiting. We have a course now.
But the peace doesn’t last.
Vinicola sits a few feet away, fiddling with a stick, tracing lazy circles in the sand. I don’t pay him much mind at first, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling at me. My eyes begin to flutter shut, a rare moment of peace washing over me, until—
“Um, Miss Captain?”
I don’t open my eyes right away. It’s just Vini, and his tone is light—too light to worry about. But there’s a pause, a silence that doesn’t sit right, that hangs too long in the air. I force my eyes open.
He’s holding something in his hand.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice almost casual. Almost.
At first, it doesn’t register. I sit up slowly, the calm I’d been clinging to evaporating like mist. But then my gaze sharpens, and the sight of it sends a jolt through me.
There, resting in his palm, is the golden compass.
My compass.
The one that I threw away. The one that’s cursed.
My breath catches in my throat. “How did you—“ I choke on the words, barely able to push them out. But before I manage to finish the question, a memory slams into me. Not just a memory—a warning. The monkey’s voice, mocking, sing-song, echoing in my head as clearly as if he were right beside me.
If you reject the invitation again, there will be consequences.
You’re bound by her will.
The feeling of drowning returns.
17
Zayan
“Where the hell did you get that?” My voice comes out sharper than I planned, rough around the edges, but it’s the best I can manage with my heart slamming against my ribs.
Am I scared? Not even close. What I feel is worse. Dread—thick, cold, like someone just dumped a bucket of seawater down my spine.
That damned compass. I’ve barely caught my breath since last night, when I saw it gleaming in Gypsy’s hands. Now it’s back, resting in Vinicola’s palm like some cruel joke, and my gut churns like I’m the one drowning, not the compass I watched her throw overboard.
Vinicola just shrugs, casual as you please. “I, uh, found it,” he says. “Buried a little in the sand. Figured it’d be useful, y’know, for… finding stuff?” He pauses, glancing between me and Gypsy. “Or… wait, is this the compass you two were talking about?”
I can’t even look at her. My throat’s tight, and I swear, for a second, I am barely holding on. How the fuck is it here? It shouldbe at the bottom of the damn ocean. I watched her throw it overboard. I watched it drown.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” I finally say, voice low. “You shouldn’t have touched it.”
