Chapter 4 Malia
CHAPTER FOUR
MALIA
Awhaler.
A good-for-nothing whaler.
Here was a man with the blood of innocent creatures on his hands.
I rubbed my eyes as I paused next to the settee and studied the man’s face, my own face turned to get the best possible look at him. He was quite handsome, a fact that annoyed me more than I thought it would.
When he knocked earlier, my heart pounded, like it was being smothered in a mortar and pestle. Who would beg for entrance at a midnight hour?
Is it her? That was all I could ask myself.
For a moment, I was sure I’d been found. Panic washed over me, stinging like alcohol on a wound.
She found me…
I paced back and forth a few times, but nobody knocked again. So I opened the door and peeked out. The aroma of banana bread and gingersnaps mixed with the welcome smell of rain.
Instead of standing face to face with someone, I looked down to find a man there, half dead.
Who is he? I asked as I checked his body. What happened to him? The gouge on his side bled profusely, and debris coated his skin.
And underneath it all, he was clearly a man of the sea. Big. Brawny. Skin stretched from the sun like leather.
Which meant one thing: He was actively involved. He had probably killed many, many whales.
If I save him, I thought, He’ll just kill more whales. But I was not about to let a human die, because I thought the life of an animal was more important…
Besides, I have to save him, I told myself. Or everyone will think I’m the monster I am…
So I dragged him in, cleaned and sewed up his wound.
The stitches weren’t perfect, but they were impressive for my limited eyesight.
I washed his body as best I could and got him comfortable on the settee.
I would have to apologize later, because I had to remove his soiled, bloody clothing, but I tried to keep him modest and dignified.
The fireplace roared while the storm rattled off outside, and I scrubbed any blood and debris that had accumulated on the floor. As I got closer to the settee and to the stranger on it, I took a shaky breath.
What if he’s sent by her? Was I housing a man who would kill me once he recovered?
I slipped a piece of his dark hair from his forehead. And though a little pale from the loss of blood, he already looked much better, his breathing steady and his expression peaceful.
Don’t be silly, Malia. He was wounded. Something had happened, and he washed up on the shores here. I’d even heard the bells of a ship in the distance.
Perhaps this man was a lone survivor of the storm that had just passed. Or perhaps there was something darker at work.
Only time will tell.
He didn’t wake up fully for a few days. Each time he did, though, I’d try to feed him and tend to him.
I helped him to the washroom where he could relieve himself.
I’d wait for him, but he was so weak from the short walk, he’d collapse on the settee afterward and sleep for hours on end.
He was terribly dirty and needed a proper bath, but we’d have to figure that out later.
The main thing was that the biggest wound on his side was clean, neatly stitched up, and healing.
One night, as I knelt by him, trying to clean the wounds on his face, he woke. Fully woke. I gasped, reeling back as our eyes locked, as far as I could tell. He tried to sit up, causing me to push him back down. “Don’t move–” I said, but he grit his teeth in pain, even flinching at my touch.
Like a true whaler, the first thing he did was curse. I bit back a harsh word about not using profanity in my home and, instead, focused on helping him relax.
“You’re alright, but you need to rest,” I said.
“Where am I?” he asked, delirious. His voice was smoky and low, and his dark brown eyes studied me. His eyes settled on the burn marks covering my neck and hands. Then they returned to my face. “Are you the angel who saved me?”
I blushed. “No. I’m not an angel, but I will help you get better.”
“With a face like that, you’re too pretty to be from down here.”
I frowned. If he were thinking clearly, he’d notice my black dress and that I most certainly didn’t look like an angel. The burn marks should’ve raised some concern for him too.
He’s delirious. And he needed rest.
The whaler started to move again when I gently pushed him.
“Please…”
His skin was warm to the touch, and it was quite awkward that he wasn’t wearing a shirt… or anything for that matter. A large blanket covered him, but still.
“Listen,” I said. “You need to rest, and when you’re feeling better, we’ll figure everything out.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, though he already began to fall asleep again. His temperature was too high. He needed rest.
“I don’t normally share my name with strangers,” I said softly.
He raised an eyebrow as if he found that amusing. “My name’s Alaric. Alaric Galebourne. Now that you know who I am, I would say we aren’t strangers anymore. Would you?”
I gaped.
Alaric Galebourne, the wealthiest, most reputable whaler in all the Tempest Seas? What was he doing here, washed up like driftwood?
His steady breaths meant he’d fallen asleep again. My stomach tightened as I continued gently cleaning his wounds.
He killed so many whales. Commanded fleets. Supplied whale oil to every kingdom, island, and province.
And here he was.
I loved whales, and it hurt that they were being destroyed at such a rapid rate. And the man in charge of their murders was here. On my settee.
My mind raced. He had to go as soon as possible.
I went off to the farmer’s market the next morning, wondering if I’d hear any gossip about Alaric Galebourne or his ship. Not surprisingly, I found a new crew of whalers. They looked rough, just as Alaric had.
Like they’d seen battle.
Battle… Yes. That would explain all the debris on Alaric’s skin and his gaping wound.
I thought of going up to them but lingered in the shadows of the banyan trees, changing my mind. With big, brawny bodies and rough, hardened expressions, they were the face of intimidation. I shrank and went around them to find Noni.
“Did you notice those whalers?” I asked as I placed my baked goods on her table. She nodded and leaned in.
“Heard their ship came to port badly beaten. It’s one of Galeborne’s crews.”
Not just one of his crews. It was his crew.
And what if they mutinied against him? If I told them where he was, would they come to my cottage to finish the job?
I had no answers until Alaric fully woke.
What was I to do until then? Well…
I reviewed everything I knew or heard about Alaric Galeborne: He was from Moanalei Kingdom. He was the famous huntsman who saved Sereth’s life from her “wicked” stepmother. And since that day, his fame only grew until he became the most feared and powerful whaler in all of Tempest Seas.
I thought about telling Noni, but decided that the less she and others knew about me, the better. What if they knew my connection to Sereth and Moanalei Kingdom by realizing my fears about Alaric and his ties to her? Then my hiding place would be revealed, and Sereth might come after me.
I can’t risk it.
So I stumbled back to my cottage, basket full of food and clothes for Alaric. With the whaler’s condition, he might be here very long, a thought that filled me with dread.
When I opened the door, Alaric tried to sit up, his eyes on me. But he grimaced in pain and grabbed his side. Another line of curses fell from his lips and, this time, I gave him a look.
“You’re in my home now, and in my home, you will not use filthy whaler’s profanity.”
His hardened expression softened, but only for a moment, where he winced and looked down, an expression of disgust on his face. He was obviously not used to being told what to do. He submitted anyway. He had no choice but to. “Very well, Ginger.”
“Ginger?”
“It’s what I’m calling you since you won’t tell me your name.”
I placed my basket on the counter. My cottage was small, with a kitchen on one side and a small living space on the other. A door led from the living space to my bedroom and washroom. “Why Ginger?”
“Because your house smells like gingerbread.” He took a shaky breath, and almost immediately, I knew he was hungry. He wouldn’t say it–after all, this wasn’t his home, and he depended completely on me. Alaric tried to sit up again, but let out a desperate breath and lied back down.
“It was deep,” I said, handing him some clothes.
“You should rest as much as you can for the first few days.” He took the clothes, but he didn’t look embarrassed.
If anything, he seemed annoyed that he was so vulnerable.
“I’m not sure if they’ll fit,” I said, “but I gave it my best guess.” At that, I entered my kitchen and began preparing a stew.
The huntsman, no doubt, had to be starving, and the sooner I got him fed, healed, and out of here, the less he would know about me.
He groaned quietly as he changed, but I gave him his space and wouldn’t look.
After a moment of silence, I dared glance into the living room.
He sat up, his face pale from the effort, and his fingers clutching the edge of the settee.
His shirt was off, a smart move on his part.
If he put it on, I’d only have him take it off again to tend the wound.
But, for whatever reason, my stomach tightened at the sight of him.
I’d seen men without their shirts before but my…
he was quite muscular. He’d been lying down most of the time with a blanket on him, and, when I helped him to the washroom to relieve himself, he wore the blanket around his body.
But now, seeing him sit up, and very much alive…
It was slightly terrifying and intriguing at the same time.
Malia! I returned my attention to the batch of fresh baked rolls I’d whipped. An island breeze wafted through the cottage and a light rain pattered again outside. The noise was soothing, and I tried to focus on that feeling rather than the anxiety knotting in my stomach about Alaric’s presence.
“Here, eat.” I handed the whaler his bowl, then sat on the rocking chair. He watched me for a moment, and when I took a bite, he took his. It was quite… sweet of him to wait for me to eat first.
Very gentlemanlike, I thought, but shoved it away. Whalers were not gentlemen.
Alaric ate slowly, his breaths shaky. No doubt any movement in his upper body affected the wound.
“What happened?” I finally asked. The stew filled me with warmth, the carrots a perfect softness, the meat salty and tender, and the onions and potatoes just the perfect diced size to add flavor and comfort.
“We were attacked,” he said, his voice low and smoky. “The ship bore the flag of Corallure, so the king or prince–one of them–sent an assassin to kill me.”
I blinked. King Halstead? Crown Prince Damien? Or Prince Elias? They wouldn’t do such a thing… unless…
“Were you whaling off the shores?” I asked.
“I was on a mission from the queen,” he said, his tone impatient. My heart froze at the word “queen.”
He’s loyal to her, I thought, and that re-emphasized the reality: He had to go as soon as possible. So how was I going to get him out of here?
Help him heal faster, I told myself. I was an herb witch, and I’d pull out all the stops for him.
He looked around, his fingers fidgeting, his jaw tightening. He kept checking his wound as if looking at it might speed up the healing.
Good. I would encourage him to get out of here as as soon as he could.
“Would you like more?” I asked, noticing Alaric had finished his bowl and was staring at it.
“I’m not going to eat all your food–” he started to say when I took it from him. Our fingers brushed and I noticed how cold his hands were. That was not a good sign.
“I cooked plenty,” I said, hurrying to the kitchen, my cheeks heating as his gaze followed me. “Besides,” I added. “I’d rather overfeed you then stitch you up again.”
When I returned, the huntsman leaned against the back of the settee, his face pale, like even eating itself wore him out. How old was he? I recalled him being very young. Was it three years older than myself?
Twenty-five. That sounded and looked about right for him.
“I will pay you back a hundredfold–” he said as I sat on the settee to gently hand him the bowl.
But I snapped back first. “I don’t want your blood money, whaler.”
The words were out before I could stop them, sharp as a foraging knife.
Silence fell between us.
He blinked, stunned. Not angry. Just… surprised. As if no one had ever spoken to him like that. My pulse raced, my fingers shaking as I handed him his bowl.
But I didn’t take my words back.
I’d spent years holding my tongue, shrinking myself to keep the peace. I didn’t know what came over me now. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the fear, or that I’d just done everything in my power to save this man’s life… and perhaps, in tending him, a dangerous feeling brewed inside.
Care.
He looked down at the bowl, then back at me, quiet now. Like a tide pulling back after a storm.
“Alright,” he finally said.
I exhaled, tension leaving my shoulders like smoke. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you did. And you should’ve.” His voice was rasped, softened. “I’ve hurt people. I know what I am.”
Something flickered in his expression. Regret, maybe? Or just the ghost of it.
Then, before I could turn away, he spoke.
“By the way…” He cleared his throat. “Thank you. For saving my life.”
I stilled.
The words were unexpected. Gentle. Real.
I swallowed hard. Nobody had ever… appreciated me.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered.
I kept my head turned so I could see him in my peripherals. And, for a moment, we simply sat in the room's hush. The wind blew outside, the hearth crackled, the steam rose from the bowls. It wasn’t peace, exactly, but something like it. A small, shared quiet.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his gaze following the motion.
I’ve hurt people. I know what I am. His voice rang in my mind.
Perhaps I’m being too unkind, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Alaric than the beast persona he wore. Something in me still wanted to believe in second chances, even if I believed I could never receive such a merciful thing.