17. Water Way to Go
Water Way to Go
It takes me three more days to adjust to the rough rocking of the ship.
In that time, I sleep in the cabin. His cabin.
It feels strange to rest in this place belonging to this man, but I don’t want to leave the comfort of the bed nook or abandon the sweet scent of his that lingers everywhere. I don’t want to leave him.
Silas strokes my hair while I’m sick and lays a cool, wet cloth over my forehead to ease the burning heat.
For three days, he visits me off and on, spending several hours at a time at my side despite my deliriousness.
The crew must see him slipping in and out of his cabin, and surely they know that I sleep in his bed, but if they say anything, I don’t hear a word of it.
Any earlier reservations he had about the crew knowing about our relationship appear to be gone, and I wonder what that feels like, the freedom not to care what others think.
But our captain—Silas goes about his day seemingly unchanged.
When I sleep, he works, returning briefly during the day to check in on me and again at night to curl into my side, the two of us pressed close to leave enough room for the ginger cat at the foot of the bed.
Though my stomach still roils with the coming storm and my mind feels hazy, I’ve never felt so at peace.
“You’re certain you’re up for it?” Silas asks as I pull on a fresh shirt on the fourth day. I try not to think about the fact that it’s his, that his rich scent is enveloping me as I tuck it into my pants, but it’s impossible.
“I think so. I haven’t been sick since midday yesterday.”
He nods and smiles as he pulls on his coat.
My hands freeze on my belt, and my jaw goes slack.
There are still flecks of blood in the blue wool, and though I try not to stare, I can’t help it.
They’re only noticeable up close, but I force my gaze down to my fumbling hands.
He has killed people, and I accepted that when I kissed him the first time. And every time since.
I blush as he adjusts my belt like it’s nothing, like his very touch isn’t making my skin hot. His fingers graze my side, and I contemplate pulling him back down into the nook and letting my hands roam all over him, but we both have duties to attend to.
Silas’s fingers catch my cheek, cupping it gently. There’s more stubble there now, a smattering of peach-colored fuzz lining my jaw from weeks of not shaving.
“I can’t decide if I like it,” I admit as his fingers settle at the corner of my lips. I’ve always been clean shaven, for as long as I can remember.
But it’s not terrible. It even makes certain things more … interesting.
His eyes meet mine for a heated moment before he says, “Keep it. I like it.”
My stomach dips as I smile back at him. “Okay, I’ll keep it.”
He kisses my cheek and leaves first, disappearing up to the main deck in a blur of blue. When I finally leave the cabin, pale-faced but mostly recovered, the crew claps, and I wave my hands in greeting to those lingering around, bowls of food steaming in their hands. My stomach gurgles pleasantly.
“He’s alive!” Pip calls. He limps toward me and hands me a bowl of stew and a mug of ale, and I sigh in relief at the sight of anything but more bone broth.
“Thank you,” I say graciously. I slurp at the edge of the bowl, gasping as it burns down my throat. But I don’t care—anything but broth.
Pip smiles and claps me on the shoulder. I jolt in surprise, some of the stew splashing over the side and onto my finger, and gasp as it scalds me.
“Yer looking better, Laszlo,” Pip says, ignoring me.
“Thanks, I’m…” I press a hand to my lips. I can feel my stomach fighting back. Oh god, not again.
“He’s a goner,” Mick mutters as I lean out over the railing and spew.
“Third time’s the charm?” Silas asks, peering at me.
I pull on another fresh shirt as I grumble to myself. “Is this my third time?” He nods solemnly. “Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath. Silas hears it, but doesn’t respond for a beat, just watches me dress, smirking.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” he tells me, fixing my shirt. His shirt.
No applause follows my entrance this time, no whoops or hollers from the other crew members as I take the steps to the main deck, and I don’t blame them. Pip hands me a bowl of stew, and everyone waits anxiously as I carefully slurp a mouthful.
It is rich and hearty, the cabbage and beef melting on my tongue. When I don’t lurch up from my spot and vomit everywhere, Pip and Jack jostle me in muted congratulations. I take another tentative bite, breathing through the steamy mouthful.
“I don’t think I could handle another day stuck inside,” I say around the bite.
I set down the stew for a moment and lick off my fingers before picking up my mug and taking a long drink of ale.
I’m just grateful to be standing. There’s a slight pang of disappointment at the thought of sleeping down below, of rejoining the crew after more than a week in that bed with Silas, but I’m not here on this crew to lounge about and sleep.
I’m here to work.
“Ah, ye’ll be back at it in no time, I’m sure of it.” Pip grins at me as he disappears into the mess, Sir not far behind.
Scanning the ship, I spot Mick. He’s seated by the foremast, legs spread out before him and back pressed against the rails. I plop down next to him, setting my ale beside me and holding up the stew.
“Welcome back,” Mick mumbles, mouth full.
Snorting, I blow on the stew. “Thank you,” I say, swallowing down another bite, the bowl already cooling.
Chewing on a large chunk of meat, I glance up at the sky.
The storm is nearly upon us now. Dark, ominous gray clouds swirl above, wisps of cool air making me shiver.
I thought it would come sooner, but there’s something more dreadful about watching as we’ve sailed closer to it these last few days.
Still, Silas does not steer us out of its path. What on earth is he planning?
“We’ll be just fine,” Mick says.
I raise a brow at him as I slurp. “How do you know?”
Mick finishes the last of his food before setting aside the bowl and wiping a hand across his mouth. His expression is somber. “We’ve been through a lot of storms, this ship and her crew. It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible.”
Nodding silently, I work on my food. After a beat Mick stands, pausing to swallow down the last of his ale. “It’s good to see you up and about, Lasz. We’ve missed you.”
Something inside of me relaxes at the use of my nickname. Humming, I watch him go. I will never get used to the feeling of belonging. It’s something I’ve spent thirty-four years searching for, and I’ve simply stumbled upon it by pure happenstance.
And, well, magic. Or whatever the hell this is.
I finish my stew and chug down the ale, and when my stomach is full and I’m standing solidly, the harsh wind whipping my hair into my face, I can sigh in relief. It wasn’t easy, but I have acclimated to life at sea, to the sway of the ocean, the food, to ale all day, every day.
Laughing, I grip the railing, looking out over the water, the fear of it minuscule now.
It’s unbelievable, but I love this place.
Despite the whole nearly-being-killed bit and the fact that these pirates will do anything to protect themselves and this ship, I love it here, and nothing can change that.
“I hate it here!” I yell as I tug on the lines.
It’s been only a day since I’ve returned to my work, and the rain is coming down in a torrential downpour.
We’re all soaked to the bone, and I’m so numb I can’t feel my thighs or my ass.
My hands, which had mostly healed in the days I’d fallen seasick, slip and slide along the rope, making it nearly impossible to hold.
They burn as the line slithers from my grip again, and several splinters from the rope have embedded themselves deep in my palms and fingers. I hiss and shake out my hands before scrambling for the line once more.
“Keep it straight!” Hux says.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to!” I yell back, cracking a smile.
Hux gives me an odd expression over his shoulder but says nothing.
I squint against the rain and see Mick across the ship.
He is striding up and down the deck, helping crew members.
Mick secures cannonballs as they roll from their places, and he ties the crew to their jacklines—short tethers along the ship to prevent us from slipping overboard—as the storm rages on, pausing to help tie off lines, even going so far as climbing up the ratlines to help secure the sails.
He has fully embraced his role as the new first mate.
And Hux hauls on the lines beside me. He says nothing as the choppy sea tosses us about. He’s dressed in thinner clothes than me, rolled-up sleeves exposing his tanned arms and a series of tattoos, but he doesn’t complain once, lips clamped together and jaw set in determination.
I blink against the water, my lips parting as I take in the storm and the advancing waves.
They’re worse, they’re so much worse than I could have imagined, and the crew takes turns emptying the contents of their stomachs into the roiling sea.
No wonder I was seasick; even the strongest of constitutions can’t handle a storm of this caliber.
“Tie down!” Mick calls. “Make certain you are tethered and secure!” He checks everyone’s jacklines, tugging on them as he passes each crew member, preparing for the storm that is waging against us, and I wish I’d never stepped out of that cabin this morning.
It feels like we’re sailing to our deaths, like the worst of it is yet to come.
Mick stops beside me, his expression warped with concern as he yanks on my jackline. “Are you all right?” His attention goes to my stomach and back to my face, brow pinched together.
“Yeah, I think so.” My stomach roils in protest, but I swallow and tighten my hold on the lines as Mick continues to check the others’ jacklines.
I widen my stance and plant my feet, preparing for the worst.