22. Colliding Tides
Colliding Tides
T he late afternoon sun glints off the rolling waves, stretching golden across the ship’s deck.
The scent of salt and tar lingers in the air, carried by the breeze that rattles the rigging and sends ropes slapping against the mast. The steady creak of wood beneath our feet is a quiet reminder of forward motion, of distance growing between us and everything we left behind.
Once we settled on the boat, we told Triona everything she had missed while unconscious—Marcus stepping in, and his failed attempt at helping. Colina’s betrayal that set everything in motion. Then, finally, about the men who came for us.
Each word felt like peeling back a scab, exposing wounds that had barely closed. It wasn’t easy. The telling made it real. But it was necessary.
By the time silence settled over us, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating kind we’d known since that day. It was a quiet that allowed us to breathe again. For the first time since the chaos, the weight in our chests felt shared, no longer something we each carried alone.
I linger in that fragile quiet, lost in thought, often reciting the events in my mind.
It’s only when movement catches my eye that I’m snapped back to the present.
Bran leans against a coil of rope near the mainmast, his grin as cocky as ever, but his eyes are fixed on Triona, studying her with a sharp intensity that sets my teeth on edge.
My jaw tightens before I catch myself, forcing a deep breath as I refocus.
“I want to spar with Triona,” he announces.
He’s loud enough to make a few deckhands pause mid-step. Triona’s face is calm, but there’s a flicker of amusement in the curve of her lips as she eyes him.
“You jest,” I say flatly, though Bran’s expression says otherwise.
He fires back without missing a beat. “C’mon, Finn, she’s got spirit. Let’s see if she’s got skill.”
“Ye’re built like a bloody draft horse,” I growl. “This isnae a fair match.”
“First, my thanks. A strong form isn’t a gift; it’s earned. I have to keep myself in top physical form for the ladies. And second…”—Bran spreads his arms wide, grinning like the devil—“To hell with fair! Let skill speak for itself!”
Casey barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Ye seriously underestimate what ye’ve just done, mate. She’s gonna knock you flat.”
I glance at Triona again, expecting her to wave this off, maybe laugh and let it go. But she stands, head high and eyes shining with something that sets my teeth on edge.
“I accept,” she says, her voice calm but firm.
Bran’s grin grows devilishly.
I open my mouth to argue, to tell her she doesn’t need to entertain this, but I know it’s useless. She’s as stubborn as a mule on a wet day.
Bran chuckles, rolling his shoulders as he steps into the centre of the clearing. “All right, lass . Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The makeshift sparring match begins with a slow circle.
Bran moves, loose and confident, his cocky grin intact.
My fists clench as I watch him tower over her, like a wolf squaring off with a raven.
But Triona doesn’t flinch. She moves light on her feet, her eyes fixed on him, sharp and calculating .
Bran lunges first, feigning left. She doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she sidesteps, darting in with a quick jab to his side that forces him to stumble back. The grin slips from his face for just a second before he resets, this time more cautiously.
It doesn’t matter. She’s too fast, too precise.
Every time he tries to land a blow, she’s already one step ahead, her movements fluid and relentless.
When Bran overextends, she ducks low, driving her shoulder into his ribs and forcing him off balance.
With a sharp twist, she sweeps his legs out from under him, and he crashes to the ground with a heavy thud.
The ship falls silent, save for the lapping of waves against the hull. Bran groans, sprawled on his back as he stares up at the rigging.
Propping himself up on his elbows, he rubs his ribs with a wince. “It’s unnatural,” he mutters, “for a woman to hit a man so hard he sees stars.”
Triona steps closer, crouching beside him until their faces are level. She tangles her fingers in the hair at the top of his head—not enough to hurt, but enough to command his undivided attention. His dazed eyes snap to hers, wide with surprise.
Her voice is low, laced with steel. “I am not just some woman. I am the woman who will bring comeuppance in full force, so it’s best for all to keep out of my bloody way.”
She rises, brushing her hands off as if the fight were only a casual chore. She’s radiant, her expression one of quiet satisfaction. Not gloating, not boastful—just steady, unshaken.
“Maybe next time,” she says with a smirk, “you’ll think twice before underestimating me.”
Casey’s laugh is contagious. “Tried tellin’ ye—never stood a chance.” For a moment, his laughter fades, replaced by something more reflective. “She’s come a long way. Always had the fire, but now… she’s a true force to be reckoned with.”
Bran lets out a weak chuckle. “Aye, a goddess to flatten all men like sacks of flour,” he says, still fighting for breath. “Never thought I’d lose my pride, my spine, and my bollocks all at once, but here we are.”
He shifts slightly, wincing. “Next time, full body armour. From head to cock. A man’s got to keep all of his parts where they belong.”
Casey barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Aye, well, let this be a lesson: never bet against a Sinclair.”
Bran groans dramatically as he shifts. “Didn’t even get a kiss for the trouble. ”
Laughter ripples through the group once more, loud and easy.
Triona stands tall, the fading sunlight painting her in gold, her breath steady, her fire undimmed. She’s light personified, standing there like a queen, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
As the others drift apart, laughter giving way to murmurs and motion, I step toward her. My voice is low, meant for her alone. “Ye’ve nothing to prove, Little Doe.”
Triona glances at me, her gaze softening, but the edge of her smirk remains. “Maybe not, but it wasn’t for him. It was for me. After everything, I needed to feel strong again.”
As I look at her, I know two things: she’ll never stop surprising me, and gods help me—I’ll never stop wanting what I can’t have.
Triona Sunday, 18 May 1823 Eighth Day Out at Sea
As I finish the last word of Frankenstein , I close the book with a soft thud and release a contemplative sigh. The story lingers in my mind, its weight settling in my chest. “That was brilliant,” I murmur, the fondness in my voice unmissable.
Beside me, Casey lounges against the side of the boat, hands tucked behind his head, long legs stretched out as if he owns the space.
His easy sprawl clashes with the stiffness in my legs and the numbness creeping into my backside—a reminder of how long I’ve been perched on this wooden bench, lost in Shelley’s words while the boat rocks beneath us.
A few paces away, Bran, Callan, and Finn sit in contemplative silence, their gazes shifting between the open water and the worn pages in my hands. They’re listening, but their minds drift—half here, half caught in the world the story has spun around us .
Casey’s gaze drifts toward the sky. “It’s eerie. The creature wasna born a monster. He just wanted to belong, to be loved. But he became something dark because no one could see him as anythin’ else.”
Bran, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, speaks. “It’s tragic—and familiar,” he muses, his voice thoughtful. “A soul rejected, forced into the shadows because the world wouldn’t make room for him.”
Casey shifts, his face taking on that rare thoughtful look. One I used to tease him about as a child. “Do ye remember Ma’s story about Lugh Lámhfhada?” he asks suddenly, turning to meet my gaze.
“Aye, the master of many skills,” I say, recalling the tale with a smile. “He had to prove himself to the Tuatha Dé Danann—show that he was worthy of their favour. They tested him, but when he succeeded, he earned his place among the greatest beings of his world.”
Casey nods, his expression thoughtful. “Ma always said if they’d turned him away, he might’ve become like the creature. Bitter, desperate, tryin’ to prove himself for the wrong reasons. But Lugh was lucky. He found his place. The creature… he never had that chance.”
“There’s a truth in there,” Finn says, his tone thoughtful. “We should treat those we dinnae understand with decency. “
I glance at him, a small smile forming. “Exactly. That’s the real test of humankind. Who knows what one might become if we give them a chance?”
Casey’s nod is slow and deliberate. “That’s what makes Triona different, lads,” he says, his voice quiet but steady.
“Most folk wouldn’t pity the creature—they’d fear him.
They see the surface and stop there, never thinkin’ what’s beneath.
But she’s always had a way of lookin’ deeper.
Seein’ what could be, not just what is.”
His words hit me like a warm light in the cold. Casey’s rare compliments always settle in places I didn’t know needed filling.
I blink at him, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “By my troth. Was that a compliment? From you?”
He huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Dinnae let it go to yer head.”
I deflect. “Maybe it’s just because Ma raised us with those stories. She made sure we knew there’s more to a person than what the world sees. ”
He nudges me with his elbow, a wry smile softening his words. “Dinnae go givin’ Ma all the credit. That kindness? That’s all you . I see it in the way ye treat folk, even when they dinnae deserve it… even when your brother’s huv’nae earned it.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Gods know what you’ve ever done to earn it. Miraculous, really.”
“Miraculous? I’m a proper saint for puttin’ up with you.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You’re my family…. that’s reason enough, I guess.”