First, I nearly cried because of Vinicola. Now, this. It’s like my entire perception of life is fucking changing. And all because of that blue-eyed bitch…
And just like that, the moment between us shatters. Something shifts in my expression—something not meant for Zayan at all. His lips curl unpleasantly, and his eyes go cold.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I won’t slow you down.”
I should say something. Should snap back, cut him down with the same coldness. But I don’t. I shove the tangled mess of emotions down, deep, where they belong.
“Good,” I say instead, keeping it simple, business-like. The words are hollow, but they’re better than showing him what’s really swirling inside my chest. I straighten, pulling myself to my feet, brushing the dirt and the damn situation off with it. I glance over at Vinicola, who’s been watching us the whole time, his face unreadable.
I wring the last drops of water from my clothes and force my spine straight, burying every crack I can feel splitting me open. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got to stay sharp, or none of us are getting out of here alive.
“Let’s go,” I say, the command clear.
Vinicola snaps out of whatever trance he was in, nodding quickly.
And soon enough, we start to climb, the weight of everything unsaid dragging behind me like an anchor I can’t cut loose. Justlike the trail of blood Zayan Cagney leaves in his wake—thick, staining, and impossible to ignore.
Because he’s right. Sooner or later, we’re going to have to talk. Otherwise, it’ll eat me alive from the inside out.
But the problem is... I’d rather fight death itself than go digging into that dark, twisted corner of my heart. I’d rather fucking die.
21
Fabien
“Ican tell what’s on your mind, young master,” Ridley says, standing by my side as I stare at the rocky climb ahead. His voice, thick with the accent he’s clung to all these years, washes over me like the tide. He’s a small man, old as the sea itself, with hair as white as snow, but his presence—his damn presence—could fill a ship’s hold. He doesn’t need to say much to command respect; it’s just there, simmering beneath the warmth in his eyes and the loyalty in his bones.
Warmth and loyalty—that’s Ridley. Sometimes I wonder if those are the only things he’s ever felt, the only things he’s capable of. Loyalty like his can’t be taught, can’t be bought. It’s in his blood. One thing I lack, and the other I crave like a drowning man craves air.
But loyalty has a way of twisting a man, doesn’t it? Digging in deep until it’s woven into every fiber of his being, making him do things he never thought he’d do. It keeps him clinging to things long past, like that damned accent of his. Even after everything—after the tragedy, after the years that have washed over us likewaves—he refuses to let it go. It’s his way of keeping our heritage alive, of holding on to the pieces of what we once were.
And I get it. He’s as scarred as I am, even if he doesn’t show it the way I do.
I should have the same accent as him. I should speak the way he does, carry the same weight in my words. But I don’t. Years of burying myself deep, of forcing myself to blend in, to become invisible, have stripped it from me. I’ve been eroded by the need to survive, by the need to be unseen.
But Ridley? No, nothing can erode him. He stands firm, unshakable, like a goddamn rock in the storm.
I respect it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Don’t call me that,” I grunt, barely sparing him a glance. “I’m not young anymore, and I’m certainly not your master. Trust me, old man, you have no idea what’s going on in my head. You might think you see the surface, but you’ll never reach the depths.”
The words come out harsher than I intended, like they’re made of broken glass. My voice hasn’t been pleasant for a long time—it’s rough, grated from years of screaming at the void. Someone once said it sounded like nails scraping over stone, with the echo of a man twice my age. Not that they’re wrong. I guess that’s what happens when you spend your nights cursing a world that’s ripped everything away from you.
But Ridley? He just smiles, that damn warmth in his eyes, like I didn’t just spit venom at him. Like we aren’t stranded at sea again, worn down from our endless wandering. Like he isn’t tired, broken from the weight of our two-month voyage to nowhere. Like he doesn’t feel the hunger, the exhaustion, the damn hopelessness that’s become a second skin for all of us.
He smiles like I’m worth something. He must be the only one left who does.
“Let me tell you something, lad,” he says, pulling a handkerchief from his chest pocket, his fingers still steady as he wipes down the barrel of my gun. “First off, you seriously underestimate my loyalty to the Rancour family.” I scoff. No, I don’t. “And second,” Ridley adds, his voice soft but sure, “while the crew may think you’re mad, I’ve always seen through that.”
“Is that so?” I mutter, my voice dragging like gravel.
Ridley’s eyes crinkle at the corners, deepening the lines on his weathered face. He’s too old for this, too seasoned to still be sailing, chasing after a man like me. And he knows damn well that whatever thoughts fester in my head, they’re not fit for someone like him.
“Yes, it is,” he replies, undeterred by my roughness. “You see, I can tell you’re thinking about them again. You always are.”
The mention of my parents sends a fresh wave of bitterness clawing up my throat. It’s been years, but some wounds never heal. Some wounds fester and rot and set off awful, awful things.
“Ridley, if you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re doing a piss-poor job,” I say, forcing a bitter laugh. My mouth might turn up in a smile, but I don’t feel it.
