Chapter 6 Malia
CHAPTER SIX
MALIA
The days wore on forever. It was like waiting for herbs to dry.
One evening, after Alaric excused himself, I paused, watching him move slow but stubborn as ever to the other room. Now the sound of water splashing echoed faintly from the washroom.
The sky had dimmed. What was once golden sunlight had cooled to a dull gray, and shadows stretched long across the cottage floor. I glanced at the open shutters. Thick clouds crept across the sky like bruises.
The ocean, visible in slivers through the palms, was no longer blue. It was steel.
I sliced chunks of taro and put them into boiling water in silence, listening to the air hush outside, the way the world seemed to hold its breath before the rain broke loose.
In the hearth, the fire hissed as wind slipped through the cracks of the window frame.
The scent of smoke and sea salt curled around me.
A low rumble rolled across the distant sky. Thunder.
Why was I feeling anxious? Everything was alright.
Alaric was healing well.
Each day a little more strength seemed to return to him.
He’d be out of here in just a few more days if we kept this up.
And then it hit me.
It wasn’t just the storm coming in. It was the feeling in my chest. That strange, unshakable knowing. Like something was shifting.
A wind howled outside and I shivered as the rainstorm picked up, battering the windows with wet, salty air.
It was at that moment, when I was deep in thought, clumsily moving about the kitchen as I normally did, that the cottage door slammed open. I was so startled, a scream didn’t even escape my lips as a man burst inside, soaked through, his blade drawn.
He was tall and slender, but anyone could tell that his eyes glistened with hatred. With the knife still in hand, my breath hitched.
“Where is he?” the intruder growled, eyes fixed on me as he stepped forward, mud dragging into my home. “I need proof that he’s dead.”
Proof that he’s dead? I gaped, frozen in fear. The man moved closer, and that’s when my brain kicked in.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Alaric was still in the washroom, and I hoped he stayed there until I got this man to leave. But the man grabbed my arms, forcing the cutting knife to the floor.
And that’s when panic settled in.
“Those villagers told me he was here.”
Those villagers! Perhaps Alaric’s crew let it slip, or others somehow found out. Gossip spread like wildfire around here. “You’re the witch aren’t you? Did you curse him? Eat him? Where is he?”
I swallowed hard. This had to be the assassin who tried to kill Alaric… but he also looked… strangely familiar.
Those eyes… filled with… remorse. Had we met before?
“Whoever you’re looking for is not–”
The man pushed me to the wall, and my head hit it so hard, everything turned white for a moment.
“You’re hiding him! If you don’t tell me where he is, you will regret it witch!”
And that was when someone tore him away from me.
“Don’t touch her.”
One arm was clutched across his side, the fresh bandages protecting his wound.
But his other hand grabbed the back of the assassin’s collar and yanked, slamming the man off balance and into the wall.
A bowl shattered on the floor. Alaric staggered, panting hard, gripping the table by the entrance for support.
“Run!” he barked at me.
But I couldn’t leave him. I watched in horror.
The assassin twisted, aiming for Alaric’s ribs, where he was already wounded. Alaric saw it too. His movements weren’t quick. But they were smart. He kicked out the assassin’s knee… hard. The man went down with a thud. The knife scraped across the wood floor.
Alaric didn’t go for it.
Instead, he used his weight, leaning his body against the attacker’s, dragging him down. “Give me the blade,” he said, voice hoarse. I scrambled, grabbed it, and tossed it toward him.
He caught it in one hand, and the moment the assassin reached up, Alaric slammed the hilt into the man’s temple. Once. Twice.
“Stop!” I exclaimed. One more hit and he’d kill the man.
“I’ll kill you,” Alaric growled, his tone raw. “I should kill you.”
My feet moved of their own accord and I placed my hand on Alaric’s arm. There was no way I could pry his fingers off the knife, or even try to move his arm away.
I had to use my voice.
“Please,” I said. “Please let him go–”
“He would’ve killed you. Or me. Or both of us.” Alaric didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the man beneath him. The whaler seethed with fury.
“Alaric.” My voice was firm, but gentle.
“This isn’t right. This isn’t who you are.
” Who was I to say such a thing? He was a stranger to me, yet…
somehow, deep inside, I knew there had to be some good.
Even though I despised whalers, and should despise Alaric out of them all, I knew there was more to him.
There was more to everyone, except me, I supposed.
The man’s eyes were wide, darting between myself and Alaric. My hand slid down to the whaler’s wrist, my fingers curling around his. “Let him go.”
Alaric closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he growled. “Who do you work for?”
“Corallure—“
“You’re lying and you know it. The king has no such assassin ships. Who do you work for?”
Fear pooled in the man’s eyes. “I swore I’d never say.”
“Then better to be silent,” Alaric threatened, moving the blade to the man’s neck.
“Alaric,” I warned. He shoved the assassin. “Get out,” he said. “Don’t ever show your face again or I will kill you next time.” And just like that, the man scrambled out into the rain, leaving us in a thick tension.
Silence fell. The only sound left was Alaric’s ragged breathing, the soft crackle of the fire, and the taro chunks still bubbling on the hearth as if nothing had happened.
I knelt beside him, hands trembling, reaching for his side. Blood. Too much blood. “Alaric, you're hurt—”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared down at the floor, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something I couldn’t name.
“Now you know,” he murmured. “No one touches you.”
Then he slumped forward. My heart raced.
Help him, Malia!
For the amount of pain he must’ve been experiencing, he kept his emotions in check. He didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t even moan. Instead, he grit his teeth, his jaw set, his fists curled. I quickly helped him up.
“We have to stitch it back up,” I said, and he allowed me to guide him back to the settee. If we didn’t contain his wound, he might lose too much blood and then… well…
Don’t think like that, I told myself, both annoyed and amused that I cared so much.
I shuddered as I grabbed my needle and thread. “Who was that?” I asked after a moment of silence.
Alaric watched me, his eyes going between my face and the needle. His body was tense, but I couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t relaxed from the adrenaline-packed encounter. My own fingers were slightly shaking, and it took all my concentration to see where the stitches had burst.
“He was the assassin from the ship. The ship bore Corallure’s coat of arms.” He grimaced as I worked. I was not one to get squeamish at the sight of blood or wounds, but, at this rate that the whaler was going, I might just start.
I didn’t reply to him, but, instead, quietly said, “Please don’t do that again–”
“And let him hurt you?”
I glanced at him, and, for a moment, color blossomed in his cheeks, something that seemed impossible for a man as rough as this whaler.
I pursed my lips, a weird sensation spreading through me. It was warm, like sipping steaming hibiscus tea on a cold night.
“Thank you.” My voice was quiet, and the whaler gave me one final look before taking a breath and relaxing on his back, his eyes closing in exhaustion.
After placing a clean bandage over his wound, I sat back and let out a slow breath. This was intense—every part of it. Housing a man who could kill without hesitation. I knew he was dangerous but now… I shuddered. Alaric could inflict damage on anyone in his path. Including me.
Except he wouldn’t.
My gaze lingered on his face, relaxed in sleep, his breathing even. My heart betrayed me with a small, aching tug.
He had saved my life. Stepped between me and danger without a second thought. Not because he had to—at least, I didn’t think so—but because he didn’t want me hurt. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for me.
Somewhere between the fear and the mistrust, I’d begun to care whether he lived. And that unsettled me more than any wound or whispered threat.
I shook my head, sealing the thought away. I would keep him alive. I would see him healed. But he could never know who I really was.
Because if he learns the truth of my past, he’ll see me for what I truly am.
The monster. The witch.