Chapter 8 The Deck
The Deck
Iclosed my eyes and wait for it to pass, but it does not.
My stomach tightens again, harder this time, pulling the air from my lungs as I lean forward against the restraint.
The motion comes before I can stop it, my body reacting without my permission, a dry heave forcing its way through me with nothing behind it.
“Fuck—”
The second one follows right after, rough enough to leave my throat raw.
The door opens, and I don’t look at him.
I don’t have the space for it. Another wave hits, and this time I can’t hold it back.
I turn as much as the restraint allows, my shoulders straining against it as I gag again, the sound breaking out of me before I can stop it.
He crosses the room quickly. “Stop.”
“I’m trying—” The words don’t finish. Another wave cuts them off, folding through me hard enough that I lose the rest of my breath with it.
The restraint loosens suddenly. I barely register it before his hand is at my back, steadying me as I lean forward, my body still trying to force something that isn’t there.
“This is stupid,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “You need air.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine—”
He doesn’t argue. His arm comes around me, firm enough that I feel it immediately, pulling me upright before I can brace against anything. I try to push him away, but the effort breaks apart halfway through, my strength failing before it can turn into anything useful.
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.”
He lifts me before I can finish, one arm behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and the room shifts out from under me as he moves.
“I said let go—”
“You’re going to pass out.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
The words come flat, without emphasis, but they don’t slow him.
The door opens again, colder air cutting through the space as he carries me into the corridor.
The motion of the ship pulls unevenly beneath us, the rhythm off in a way that makes the nausea worse, but the air is different out here, thinner, easier to breathe.
“Put me down,” I say, quieter now, my voice worn thin by the effort. “I can walk.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can walk.”
He doesn’t answer. By the time we reach the stairs, the sound of the sea has grown louder, the wind pushing through the structure in uneven bursts. When we step onto the deck, the cold hits hard enough to force a breath from me.
There is no one else here. The ship stretches out around us, dark and nearly empty, lanterns burning low along the edges, their light catching in the wet boards and along the ropes pulled tight against the mast. The water moves in long, uneven swells, rising and falling in a rhythm that feels too slow, too heavy.
He sets me down.
My feet hit the deck unevenly, and I have to catch myself against the rail to stay upright, my grip tightening as the dizziness subsides.
I focus only on breathing, forcing each breath in and out until the nausea eases enough to give me room to think again.
I was aware of him behind me, close enough that I could feel him without turning, waiting in a way that made him impossible to ignore.
Then the memory of what he had said returned, and with it the full understanding of where I was and what he intended.
I straightened slowly, my hand still resting against the rail.
“I’m not going to Alarna with you.”