Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
LILY
I woke to the gray light of dawn filtering through the cracks in the ship's hull, and for a moment I didn't know where I was.
Then I remembered. The ship. The hammock. The life I was leaving behind.
Today was the day.
Tonight, they would come for me.
I lay there for a long moment, staring at the wooden beams above me, feeling the gentle rock of the waves beneath me.
My body felt wrong—too warm, too sensitive, every brush of fabric against my skin sendt little shivers down my spine.
The pre-heat was getting worse. Even with the doubled suppressants, I could feel it building, a pressure beneath my skin that wouldn't ease.
However, beneath the discomfort, beneath the anxiety, there was something else.
Hope.
I touched my hair, feeling for the braid Vale had woven there weeks ago. The pearl was gone now—too risky to wear on the ship—but the braid remained. A reminder. A promise.
Tonight. Sundown. They would come for me, and I would never have to wake up in this hammock again. The thought sent a flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with the pre-heat.
Mine. They were mine now. And tonight, I would finally be theirs.
I forced myself out of the hammock and into the routine of the day.
Washing my face with cold water from the basin.
Pulling on my work clothes—the same clothes I'd been wearing for months, now missing several strips of fabric that were currently woven into four siren braids somewhere in the deep ocean below.
The thought made me smile.
I emerged onto the deck to find the ship already bustling with activity.
Sailors moved around me, hauling ropes and adjusting sails, their voices carrying on the salt-tinged wind.
None of them looked at me twice. To them, I was just Lily—the quiet deck hand who kept to herself, who worked hard and caused no trouble.
They had no idea what I really was. What I was about to become. I threw myself into work, trying to keep my mind occupied. Scrubbing the deck. Coiling ropes. Helping in the galley. Anything to make the hours pass faster, to keep myself from counting every minute until sunset.
"You're working hard today," Old Marsh commented as I passed him near the bow, his weathered face creased with something like concern, his pale eyes squinting against the morning sun.
He was one of the few crew members who'd shown me any kindness—a beta in his sixties who reminded me of the grandfather I'd never known.
"Just trying to stay busy," I said, keeping my voice light, my expression neutral, my hands still clutching the bucket I'd been carrying.
"Mmm," he hummed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he squinted at me, his pale eyes sharp despite his age. "You look feverish. You feeling alright?"
"Fine," I said quickly, too quickly, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face.
"Just warm. The sun, you know." He didn't look convinced, his bushy eyebrows drawing together, but he nodded and let me pass.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away, and I forced myself not to hurry, to not look suspicious.
Just a few more hours. I just had to get through a few more hours.
The galley was hot and crowded when I arrived to help with the midday meal.
Cook—a massive beta woman with arms like tree trunks and a voice that could cut through a storm—put me to work chopping vegetables without a word.
I fell into the rhythm of it. Chop, scrape, chop, scrape.
The knife was dull and the carrots were soft, but the monotony was soothing.
Something to focus on besides the heat building under my skin.
"You're quiet today," said Finn, the young beta who usually worked beside me, his freckled face turned toward me with open curiosity. He was barely older than me, with a spray of freckles across his nose and an easy smile that never seemed to fade. "Quieter than usual, I mean."
"Just thinking," I said, not looking up from my work, keeping my eyes fixed on the rhythmic motion of the knife.
"About what?" he pressed, leaning closer, genuine interest warming his voice.
"Nothing important," I said, scraping the chopped carrots into the pot and reaching for another.
He was silent for a moment, and I thought he'd let it drop. Then: "You know, if you ever wanted to talk... I'm a good listener," he offered, his voice soft and earnest, his hands pausing on his own cutting board. "My ma always said so."
Something twisted in my chest. Guilt, maybe.
Finn had been kind to me. They all had, in their own ways—the crew members who weren't alphas, who didn't look at me like I was something to be claimed.
And I was about to disappear without a word, leaving them to think I'd drowned or fallen overboard or simply ceased to exist.
"Thank you," I said quietly, finally meeting his eyes, seeing the kindness there that I didn't deserve. "That's... that's kind of you."
He smiled, bright and genuine, his freckles bunching up on his cheeks, and went back to his work. I wouldn't miss the ship. But I might miss some of the people on it.
The afternoon dragged on. I moved from task to task, trying to stay busy, trying to stay invisible. But no matter where I went, no matter what I did, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Cort.
I felt his eyes on me before I saw him. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck, the instinctive awareness that came from months of learning to sense danger before it arrived.
He was leaning against the mast, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Not the usual hungry assessment—this was something else. Something more calculating.
I kept my head down and continued coiling the rope in my hands, but I could feel him moving closer. His footsteps were deliberately loud on the wooden deck, announcing his presence, making sure I knew he was coming.
"You're different," he said, stopping a few feet away from me, his voice low and meant only for my ears, suspicion threading through every syllable as his shadow fell over my work.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, not looking up from the rope, keeping my hands steady despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Something changed," he continued, ignoring my response, crouching down to put himself in my line of sight and force me to acknowledge him, his brown eyes hard and searching.
"You walk different. Hold yourself different.
And you smell..." He paused, nostrils flaring, his brow furrowing as he inhaled deeply.
"You smell like the ocean. Like something else underneath. "
I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Brown, ordinary, human. Nothing like the dark depths of Kaelan's gaze, or the molten gold of Riven's, or the silver starlight of Vale's, or the warm honey of Thane's.
He was nothing compared to them. Nothing at all.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, surprised by how steady my voice came out, how calm, how completely unafraid. Something flickered in his expression. Uncertainty, maybe. Or unease.
"You're lying," he said, but there was less confidence in his voice now, his eyes narrowing as he studied my face, searching for cracks in my composure. "I know you're lying. Something's going on with you, and I'm going to figure out what."
I held his gaze. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away. A week ago, I would have been terrified. Would have ducked my head, mumbled an apology, tried to make myself smaller and less noticeable. Would have done anything to avoid his attention.
That was before. Before four ancient predators had looked at me and seen something worth keeping. Before I had braided my claim into their hair and heard them call me theirs. Before I had finally, finally stopped running.
I wasn't afraid of Cort anymore. I was claimed by monsters far more terrifying than he could ever imagine. And they would burn the world for me if I asked.
"Then figure it out," I said quietly, and something in my voice—some edge that hadn't been there before—made him lean back slightly, made his jaw tighten with surprise. "But until you do, leave me alone."
I went back to coiling the rope. For a long moment, he didn't move. I could feel his confusion, his frustration, his growing suspicion. He knew something was wrong. He just couldn't figure out what.
Finally, he stood up and walked away without another word. I didn't watch him go. I just kept working, my heart racing but my hands steady, counting the hours until sunset.
The sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
I found myself at the bow of the ship, leaning against the railing, watching the water darken as the light faded.
Somewhere down there, four sirens were waiting.
Four ancient predators with my braids in their hair, counting the minutes until they could come for me.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a familiar voice said from beside me. I startled, turning to find Old Marsh settling against the railing beside me. His eyes were fixed on the sunset, his weathered face soft in the golden light, the lines around his mouth deepening as he smiled.
"Yes," I agreed quietly, turning back to watch the colors bleed across the sky. "It is."
"I've been sailing these waters for forty years," he said, his voice carrying the weight of memory, his gnarled hands gripping the railing loosely.
"Never gets old. The way the light hits the waves.
The way the sky bleeds into the sea." He glanced at me, something knowing in his pale eyes, something that made my breath catch.
"You ever feel like you belong out here? On the water?"
My throat tightened. "More than I've ever belonged anywhere else," I admitted, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
He nodded slowly, like I'd confirmed something he already suspected, his weathered face thoughtful.
"Some people are meant for the land. Houses and hearths and solid ground beneath their feet.
And some people..." He trailed off, looking back at the darkening water, the sunset reflected in his pale eyes.
"Some people are meant for something else entirely. "
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know if he understood more than he was letting on, or if he was just an old man waxing philosophical at sunset.
"Whatever you're running toward," he said quietly, his voice gentle but certain, his eyes still fixed on the horizon, "I hope you find it."
I swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden burn in my eyes. "Thank you."
He pushed off from the railing with a grunt, his joints creaking with the movement, and patted my shoulder once before shuffling away. "Take care of yourself, girl," he called over his shoulder, his voice gruff but kind. "The sea is beautiful, but she's not kind."
I watched him go, something aching in my chest. He was wrong about that. The sea had been kinder to me than the land ever was.
The sun sank lower. The sky deepened from orange to purple to the first hints of star-studded black.
Almost time.
I could feel it building in my chest—anticipation, fear, desperation, and aching hope all tangled together. Tonight, everything would change. Tonight, I would stop being the girl who ran and start being the woman who chose.
I gripped the railing, knuckles white, and watched the last sliver of sun disappear beneath the horizon.
Sunset.
They were coming.