All this, so Gypsy believes. All this to change the course of her mind.
I arch a brow at her. “Guess The Lady decided she’s had enough of your blasphemy. Wanted to show you up.”
Gypsy scoffs, hands on her hips, looking anywhere but at me. “Not just a bitch. Petty as hell, too.”
She’s restless, can’t keep still, spinning on her heels to face Vinicola before snatching the compass from his hands. She opens it, and I step in closer, my chest brushing against her shoulder. Her scent hits me—a mix of something sweet and warm, hidden under the smoke of cooking fish and fresh water from her bath. Papaya and sunlight.
I inhale that in, as I watch the compass’ needle. It’s spinning slowly, as if deciding on a direction. Then, with a sudden click, it stops, pointing firmly towards the horizon.
“Looks like we’re heading south-east,” she says.
South-east. Out of reach from Roche and Silverbeard. Territories neither of them dared to touch. Untamed, full of chaos, and probably a hellhole of violence. Sure thing.
I force a grin. “South-east it is. At least we won’t have the Marauders or Serpents sniffing around, right?”
I say it like it’s a win, but I know better. My shoulders sag a little. Sailing through storms and facing sea gods? Sure, that’s one thing. But pirates? They’re another beast entirely. And I’d know. I’m one of them.
Gypsy flashes a half-smile before dropping down onto the sand. The talk dies there. Even Vinicola, usually full of hot air, stays quiet. The two of us eat the fish, slice through a third of the fruit, and stash the rest for the ship.Gypsy’s lying down with her face turned to the sea. Her gaze fixed on the horizon, expression empty, unreadable. I want to ask her what she’s thinking about, but I stay quiet. It feels like she needs to stay with her thoughts alone, staring off with the sea in a silent challenge. I watch her like that for some time, until she begins to blink slowly, the first wave of sleepiness washing over her face.
By the time the stars burn through the sky, brighter than the fire at our feet, Gypsy’s out cold. How she sleeps with everything hanging over us, I’ll never understand, but I’m glad she does. Vinicola’s not far behind her.
But me? I’m wide awake.
Plans swirl in my head. I’ve got fish to catch, repairs to make, sails to mend.
But none of that matters half as much as keeping a certain girl alive.
That’s the real job.
18
Gypsy
Iwake up with sand stuck to my cheek, gritty and irritating. The sun’s already rising, heat creeping in like it has every intention of baking me alive before noon. But that’s not what feels off.
It’s the sound.
Someone’ssinging.
Not just any singing—it’s loud, obnoxious, and thoroughly out of place on this empty stretch of beach. A male voice, too melodic to ignore but far too annoying to enjoy, fills the air. I groan, burying my face deeper into the crook of my arm, refusing to open my eyes. Maybe if I lie still long enough, it’ll stop.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. The gods themselves couldn’t silence this idiot, squawking like some mad peacock.
I crack an eye open, wincing as the sunlight stabs through my skull. My body aches from the last few days of running, fighting, and trying not to lose my mind in this damn jungle.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out hoarse and thick with sleep.
Vinicola’s voice chirps back, bright as the morning sun I’m currently cursing. “Good morning, Miss Captain! I thought you could use some…ambiance. Zayan and I let you sleep in.”
He’s sitting there, cross-legged like some carefree minstrel, fingers tapping against a few twigs he’s gathered. Drumming. Gods, he’s actually drumming, creating some makeshift beat as he hums a tune, flashing me that stupid grin—wide-eyed, brimming with ridiculous, childlike delight.
It’s absurd. A grown man, sitting on a beach littered with the wreckage of the schooner, smiling like he’s got nothing to fear. It’s the kind of expression you only see on the youngest, most sheltered kids—kids who haven’t yet learned that the world’s always looking for an excuse to wipe that smile off their face.
Around here, you either grow out of that fast, or life teaches you how. Because happiness, joy, any kind of good emotion—that’s just an invitation for someone to rip it away.
Anger is better. Anger protects you. It’s the only thing you can show openly without getting your throat slit for it. That’s what I’ve learned. That’s what I show. Zayan, on the other hand, wears that cocky indifference like armor—smirks, half-lidded eyes, like nothing can touch him. But it’s a defense mechanism, same as mine. A way to adapt to the brutality of this world.
Vinicola? He doesn’t seem to adapt at all.
