Текст книги "The saltwater course"

Автор книги: Avian St. Graves

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

21

Cindi

I bat a fly away from the properly cooked fish before dipping it into sambal, letting my bad arm rest at my side. I showed Ordus how to make it properly this morning, then supervised his dinner attempt. Then he grabbed a deck chair, and we made a ten-minute trek through the forest to the beach to watch the sun set beneath the shore.

I’ve bathed, moisturized, cleaned, and de-matted my hair. My organs still feel a bit rough from the whole dehydration thing, but I’m feeling exponentially better. Refreshed—at ease.

The breeze is cooling my face, the sand soft beneath my feet, I have good food, and no human could be hiding behind any tree—I cast a brief look around to be sure.

The fear is still there, but I haven’t felt this truly at peace in so long, I forgot this feeling existed.

Ordus’ stray tentacle has been wrapped around my bad arm every chance it gets. I should probably hate it, but whatever magic it is that Ordus has, his little ministrations make the pain in my arm subside enough for me to have a coherent string of thought.

We spent the day setting up containers around the island to collect rainwater. Ordus never asked why, or what the purpose of the containers was. He just did it happily without question. But when I explained to him what it’s for and how it’d work, I half regretted it.

The only time Ordus left my side was for about half an hour, when he came back with three big drums. I felt like throwing my bachelor’s degree out the window when he was the one who suggested a filtration system with mesh from the mainland.

I am equally impressed and mortified that a kraken out-engineered me.

I’m pretty sure he picked up on it, so he took the back seat and let me order him around as we put it together—not that I was much help, since my elbow decided to become completely useless after I made lunch. At least the rain saucer was my idea.

I peek at Ordus out of the corner of my eye. His braid falls over his shoulder, and he carefully touches the green scrunchie as if it might break. Every time I see him looking down at the hair tie like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, my stomach does a flip.

He looks at me the same way, I realize. That same awe, like I’m more than just a body he needs to marry to end a curse. Like he might want me for me, not because I’m something a divine being threw his way—or out of a sense of duty.

It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. My feelings mean nothing.

I won’t stay here permanently. I need to figure out a way to leave so I can keep running until my eventual death. But…would it be so bad if I hung around here for a while to catch a break? Whoever was at my place will probably think I did a runner again and be looking for my trail in the wrong direction.

It’d be a chance for me to regroup and recover, make a plan, then go for it.

Just the thought of needing to start again makes me sick.

But when I think about the Curse…it doesn’t make sense. How could the fate of all krakens possibly be on my back? I’m a random human plucked off the street. There’s no way a Goddess picked me to be the supposed savior.

“There’s no…back door?” I think out loud.

Ordus casts his attention to me.

“For the Curse,” I clarify. “You can’t use reverse psychology on the Curse and make it take someone else’s land—okay, not like that. But, I don’t know? Maybe bounce the Curse to a parcel of land not being habited. Like…like the space cemetery in the South Pacific Ocean by…” I click my fingers. Where was it? “Point Nemo!”

“Uh…” He glances to the side, like he’s finding a way to nicely tell me I’m insane. “I…do not know where that point is…or a space cemetery.”

“It’s where countries dispose of their spacecrafts like satellites and space debris.” I read an article back when Dad was alive, when I still had interests outside of pleasing Tommy. “There are no oceanic currents in the area or something like that, so there’s no marine life. If there is, there would be even less life caused by the chemical spillage, radioactive material, general waste, and collision shock. If you deflect the Curse to the cemetery, it would be perfect.”

Ordus scratches the back of his head then snatches his hand away like he doesn’t want to ruin the braid. I bite back a smile—another foreign feeling. Did I smile or laugh with Deedee and Nat?

He frowns. “Even if that was possible, I wouldn’t have the slightest inkling on how to do it. Any kraken who may have ideas are either dead or have gone to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”

“Fuck.”

“I do not have the magical capabilities to wield that type of power,” he adds.

I tip my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t have the fate of all krakens in my hands. I just can’t. How many krakens are out there? A hundred? Three hundred? Thousands?

“May I ask you a question?”

“No,” I say immediately. Ordus’ face falls, and my gut constricts with guilt. “Maybe,” I amend.

“Who is after you?”

I take a deep breath. It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I figured he’d ask sooner rather than later.

My hand wraps over the scar on my wrist like it might hide the evidence of my past. As I rub it, pins and needles pierce my flesh from my elbow down to my fingers at the thought of Tommy.

There’s not a single person who knows who and what I’m running from, or even my real name. A name carries weight. The moment I say his name, Thomas Gallagher, people will start connecting the dots.

But who would a kraken know? Yes, he’s a king, but he had no idea what a scrunchie was. He thought my skincare products were potions, that humans drink seawater.

I could scream my ex-husband’s name, list every single person in his family, mention every company they own, and Ordus still wouldn’t know who the hell they are, because this is another universe. I’m on Earth, but in another realm entirely.

“Tommy Gallagher.” I haven’t spoken his name out loud in over a year. It tastes bitter and liberating. I stop myself from mentioning pirates, because that probably has a different meaning to him.

Ocean blues turn stormy as a vein in his temple ticks. “Did he harm you?”

I flinch at the memory of my marriage. Ordus knows the answer. I think he figured it out long before I uttered my demon’s name.

“I will kill him,” he snarls, teeth bared, incisors on show.

It’s…touching. I forgot what it’s like to have someone in my corner. The only person to slay my demons has been me.

“Too late. I beat you to it.” I don’t mean to sound sad, but it’s the first time I’ve confessed my sins out loud, and it’s like this great big weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can finally breathe again, release a hand off the reins and let someone else grip them for dear life with me.

It’s a premature feeling, but it’s there all the same.

“My mate is deadly.” Ordus dips his head in appreciation. Our gazes clash, and the glint of pride in his eyes makes me want to crawl into a ball and cry. “You will not need to kill again—not unless you enjoy it, in which case I will bring you many bodies.”

I blanch. Right, I forgot we both have a different set of morals and ethics. “You aren’t meant to condone murder, let alone enable it.”

No, the giddy feeling in my chest isn’t because his declaration of bloodshed is kind of romantic. If I’m swooning, it’s from the heat and the many near-death experiences I’ve had as of late.

“I would kill every male alive for you—monster and human. It makes no difference to me whether you take their last breath or I do.” I inhale sharply and still when he trails a finger down my jaw. “Ask, and I will make it so.”

“You—” I shift in my seat and clear my throat. He lowers his hand back to his side, disappointed. “You don’t need to kill anyone for me.”

Kill all the Gallaghers for me, and make it hurt, is what I want to say.

“I have done it many times before. There is no version of existence where I wouldn’t do it all again for you.” His voice is a deep rumble that sends a dark thrill through me.

Tommy killed in my name before, but it was never for me. The wounds he left behind have scraped and reopened a hundred times. They’ve been infected, inflamed, bloodied, and bruised, but they never healed. The best is a moderate itch begging to be scratched.

Because I lied when I said I’d sleep peacefully after killing Tommy. I haven’t known a moment of peace since I shoved that knife into his neck. I’m afraid it’ll never get better.

“How do you sleep with all the blood on your hands?” I whisper, staring at my plate. I’ve lost my appetite.

“Alone.” Ordus’ face betrays nothing. It’s only the tightening of his tentacle that tells me our words have any impact. I watch him soften when he looks back down at the braid, and my tummy does a low whoop despite the somber shift in atmosphere. “Sometimes, I rest still feeling their blood on my skin.”

My fingers twitch, remembering how it felt to pierce skin and sinew, how the warmth of his blood felt splattered on my face.

“Sometimes,” I start, thinking of the nights I’ve spent staring at my hand and the two-and-a-half-inch scar on my wrist. “Sometimes, it’s a blanket that warms you to the core.”

“Other times, it leaves you cold,” he finishes for me. My injured arm prickles under the heat of his attention. His hand covers mine, engulfing the scar and each of my sore fingers in his protective embrace. “But you are not alone anymore. You have no need to fear.”

Inhaling deeply, I explain. “His family will not rest until they’ve captured me.”

“No one will find you here.”

I know that. More than anything, I know that in my very soul. John and the rest of the Gallaghers won’t, but Tommy’s ghost will follow me wherever I go.

The second I think it, a knife twists in my stomach. It’s like a premonition. I’m setting myself up for failure. I want so badly to not see Tommy in every man I encounter, to stop running and hiding.

Just being able to mention his name without fear of repercussions is like having a stream of light break through the cracks so there’s one corner of the world where his ghost can’t touch me.

Ordus is nothing like the Gallaghers, who all hide their faces. Ordus sometimes wears his heart on his sleeve, and maybe I might have thought it was manipulative before, or a mask, but it’s clear this is just who he is. There’s nothing hiding in the closet. He’s just…sad.

“He was my husband,” I whisper, unsure whether I want Ordus to hear. I wince when I move my elbow to get more comfortable. Ordus freezes and snatches his hand away, like he’s worried he’s the issue. “It’s a…an old injury,” I assure him. “I’ve had it for years.”

The muscles in his jaw pulse. He touches the scar on his ribs, and a flicker of rage crosses his face. My heart sinks. It really is like holding up a mirror. When you survive certain things, you develop a knack for recognizing other survivors.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask, nodding at his rib.

He drops his hand, lips set in a grim line. “Only when I remember.” His throat bobs as he fixes attention back on my scar. “One day, I hope I can help you forget.”

My chest swells with that dangerous feeling. I hope you can forget too.

“One day,” I agree.

It’s a dream. Hope is as deadly as a gun, but one will hurt far more.

Soft snoring filters through the cave as Ordus’ chest rises and falls beneath my hand. Suckers pulse against the skin of my arms like a heated massage. Fingers are threaded in my hair, at the nape of my neck. Tentacles are wrapped around my legs and my waist. The moisture from his breath kisses my forehead as he dreams of—do krakens dream? They probably do.

Lord knows where Vasz is. Probably harassing a poor, innocent fruit.

Ordus has been asleep for an hour already, I think. He’s been falling asleep well before I do since I’ve voluntarily returned to the island. Ever since we had our talk a few days ago, things have been…tense. Not tense tense, but more like there’s a strange rift between us that almost feels forced. It feels like I’ve done something wrong, except all he’s done is give me space to explore and do things at my own pace—except sleep.

Hell would freeze over before Ordus imposes a cuddle-free sleep routine.

Slowly, with the precision and finesse of someone defusing a bomb, I try to extract myself from the gentle giant. Like every other night I’ve tried to escape, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the blue wire or red—it blows up on me.

His soft purrs pour into the small cave, and it’s like a switch that instantly changes the chemicals in my brain to turn me into mush. Suckers glide over my skin, warm and nice. Very nice. Too nice. Sliding up my leg, close to my core—too close.

Molten heat spreads from my stomach, out to the tips of my fingers and my toes. My lungs constrict as his thick appendage parts my legs in its pursuit to climb higher, closing in on the apex of⁠—

I gasp, snapping my eyes to his sleepy face to check if he’s aware of what he’s doing. His solid limb grinds against my pussy over the thin cotton fabric of my sleep shorts, sneaking higher to wrap around my hips, holding me firmly in place as his suckers pucker over my clit.

Pure, raw desire shoots up my spine, and I clamp my lips together to stop my moans from breaking loose. My hand stiffens over his hard abs, and it’s like his scent has seeped into my bloodstream to make me see double.

The sudden pressure and sensations have my nipples hardening, and I’ve lost the ability to breathe, too scared I might make noises that will wake Ordus.

Goosebumps rain over my flesh. Something momentarily turns off in my brain, and my body develops a mind of its own; back arching, hips bucking up to meet the length of hard muscle. It’s like I’m seeing God.

The forbidden, delicious heat curls through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from doing it again as the thick appendage continues to glide over my center. Each sucker is like another nail in the coffin of my undoing, because I woefully fail. My hips shift to grind against him—one more time. The need to be filled is all-consuming. By him. My dildo. I don’t care which.

His tentacle halts its travel up my aching body, but my panties are already saturated. My core is aching with need, and every fiber of my being is begging me to ride the tentacle nestled between my thighs. I breathe hard through the fog in my brain and nuzzle my face against his chest like I can hide from the world.

How does one level up from a tentacle dildo? By graduating to the real deal, of course.

Because completely and undeniably, I have the hots for a kraken. I have no idea how to unpack that with a therapist.

OceanofPDF.com

22

Vasz

Day and night, I guard the parameter.

Ninety-eight have passed since I have been tasked with the most important role in existence. I do not rest. I do not squander. My Queen Mate’s life depends on me.

I am her guard shark-doggopus.

My eyes narrow at the wooden plank, daring it to drift closer and disturb my human. It is not easy protecting Cindi. Everything is a threat.

Ordus has granted me permission to bite any foe who dares come near my island. Even once the kraken has returned from hunting, I do not rest.

My trust in him is…fickle. She was sick, and it was I who brought her the coconut. I brought her back from the brink of death. If she needs another coconut, I will be ready. I cannot rely on Ordus to do right by her.

Also, she likes me more. Cindi has never called Ordus a good kraken. She calls me a good boy whenever I see her, and I make her laugh.

Ordus doesn’t make Cindi laugh.

Whenever I haven’t seen her in a long, long time, I sprint up to her, maybe pee a little—a moment of weakness, on my part—tail wagging as I jump all over her. She smiles at me and tells me she missed me too.

Does she tell Ordus she missed him? No.

Does she sneak Ordus her food when no one is looking? No.

Does she rub his head and call him a good boy? No. I’m the only good boy around here.

She once called me the bestest of all boys, and my Queen Mate is not a liar.

The waves are strong today. Cindi always comes out into the water to sit and stand on her board whenever it is like this. It makes my job harder, because there are always more threats and greater risks with her out in the open.

The plank floats closer. My warning growl renders it still. I stretch my paws out so it sees my claws. I take my duty very seriously.

It drifts closer once more. I lower to my haunches.

“Leave now. This is your last warning.”

It sways closer.

The audacity.

“Do not test me,” I growl, peeling my lips back.

This time, when it moves, I pounce, tearing Cindi’s potential attacker to shreds until it’s littered over the sea floor. It was not a worthy opponent.

Satisfied the threat has been eliminated, I straighten to stare down my nose at the plank. “If you want blood, you will see blood.”

OceanofPDF.com

23

Cindi

Surfing would be a lot more relaxing if I didn’t have to keep an eye out for Vasz the entire time. The fucker likes to graze his teeth over my foot.

Whenever I’ve been sitting on my board for too long, he likes to take a nip. It scares the shit out of me. He hasn’t done it in a week, but I don’t trust the little prick one bit.

When I get mad at him, he acts like I’ve cussed out his entire bloodline. He has a pair of killer puppy dog eyes he shoots me with every time I tell him off. It makes me feel like a complete ass after.

It’s unnerving how almost humanlike he can be.

I check the surrounding water again before letting my eyes drift shut, bobbing along to each wave.

Aside from the constant fear I may lose a limb because of Petroleum Jelly’s boredom, I’ve been stuck on this island for five weeks, and I wish I could say I’ve hated every moment of it.

My arm hasn’t felt so goddamn good in years. With the relaxed island lifestyle combined with whatever it is Ordus’ suckers do to me every night while we sleep, I’m reminded the baseline for the amount of pain a person should be in is zero, not five.

Assuming I’m not calling in a sick day—which has been happening far too often lately—I’ve got a routine down pat: wake up in Ordus’ many arms, eat, surf, read, eat, surf again, eat again, maybe workout, maybe tinker away in the workshop to try to rebuild the boat’s engine.

If I’m not doing any of that, I’m making the island my own.

I’ve tried planting some fruits and veggies to see if I can get something to grow, but I’m not an agricultural specialist, and I’ve never had much of a green thumb. I’m trying to build an irrigation system to see if that does anything as well. My efforts are probably pointless because of the whole Curse thing. Still, I like the challenge.

I also have plans to explore some type of renewable energy source. Somehow, Ordus managed to find me a book on it. So far, without a lab to make half the stuff I need, I’ll need to go really old school and summon my inner Faraday.

Even though my arm is better, I haven’t been pushing it too much. I’ve been coming up with ideas of things to make, like a swing, hammock, shelving, and other random stuff, and then Ordus puts it together.

Ordus has been giving me my space—Vasz most definitely has not. He’s the definition of a Velcro dog. Whenever I lounge around the beach, he drops a coconut on me to throw. For hours. He literally doesn’t stop. Ever. If he’s panting to the point that he’s foaming at the mouth, all he needs is a ten-minute nap, and he’s rested and ready to go.

The Coconut Princess has developed this new thing where he refuses to chase fish through the underwater tunnels for his meals. He now requires all fish be prekilled and served to him by me on one of my plates, and he refuses to start unless I praise him first.

Some days, he requires I pretend the raw fish is actually my dinner, so I have to take a fake bite then give it to him.

He might be a little shit, but he’s starting feel like my little shit.

A fin pokes out of the water and starts swimming toward me. I lift my legs out and cross them on my board, watching him closely.

Vasz sticks his head out, a long stick between his teeth. He growls when I reach for it, and I roll my eyes. “Wow, Vasz.” I pat his head, entertaining his need for constant praise. “Look at what you’ve got there. Good job.”

He chuffs, all cocky, as if confirming that it is, in fact, a good stick, then dives beneath the waves, swimming off to God knows where.

It’s on my to-do list to ask Ordus why they’re currently giving each other the cold shoulder, or they’ll argue with each other to the point that Vasz barks, and Ordus says something that sounds a lot like “She’s not yours.”

But he’s not really talking to me much.

Sometimes he huffs and gives me shit for encouraging Vasz’s spoiled ass, but hell, sometimes I just want to dress the shark-dog up like a hula girl or something.

I drop onto my stomach and paddle toward the oncoming wave. A smile pulls at my lips at the flash of red and yellow gliding through the water alongside me. He’s always around somewhere.

The stage-five clinger sleeps with me every night, so I have approximately half an inch of breathing space at any given moment, with Ordus on one side and Vasz on the other. Sleeping while touching someone took some getting used to—I’m not even sure I am used to it yet.

Vasz races me back toward the shore, doing loops around me when I slow to a stop, patiently waiting for the next wave that tickles my fancy.

I crane my neck toward the beach, hoping to see Ordus somewhere, but, as usual, he’s nowhere to be seen.

Other than the forced sleeping arrangement, Ordus gives me more breathing room than I expected. He’s normally lurking around somewhere, but without fail, he’s always there for lunch and dinner, only really speaking to ask whether I’ve eaten enough—which I most definitely have.

Otherwise, our communication consists of me talking at him, ordering him to get this or that, hammer a nail here, set the wood at that angle there—a little higher on the left, nope, too high.

The few times I’ve covertly tried looking for him, I found him at the workshop, either making improvements to the shed or creating something. Every two or three days, he’s gone for long stretches of time, returning with food, water, and random knick-knacks from the mainland and sea life he’s hunted for us.

Space from Ordus was good at the start.

I don’t find it so good anymore.

I miss the mainland. I miss interacting with people. I miss feeling like I’m not the only person in existence.

Vasz is great, but not quite enough.

Tipping my head up, I spot the angry storm clouds in the distance and internally grumble.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning. That old sailor’s adage was utter bullshit. It was nice and blue when I woke up today.

If I had known the weather was going to turn, I would have spent the entire day reinforcing and adding more rainwater traps so I don’t have to take really pathetic baths in the blow-up kiddy pool Ordus brought me.

Ordus promised to get me a proper bathtub one day, but my current digs suit me just fine. At the start, it was a little demeaning to use it, but then Ordus brought me a bottle of vodka, and one day, I got loose and limber and started feeling like a mermaid in that thing. Ever since, I’ve been kind of fond of it.

Plus, it’s not like I’m staying here forever.

It’s just temporary, until I feel ready to venture back out into the real world and go back to jumping at my own shadow. Or until Ordus gets bored or tired of “running around” for me and takes me back.

Some unpleasant feeling churns in my gut at the thought.

I shake my head and paddle back to shore. We need some kind of tank to store all the water to limit further contamination. The drums are okay for now, but I’d feel better if I had a backlog in case of a rainy day.

Well, in case it stops raining.

I jog back toward the shed with my board. Vasz runs alongside me, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, yipping, thinking we’re on some kind of mission.

One of our newly acquired chickens screeches when it sees us and dashes back to the coop Ordus made.

“Don’t,” I warn Vasz.

He doesn’t listen, snapping at the poor animal. I swear it loses a feather.

Prickles skate over my skin, and I come to a halt, leaning against a nearby tree to catch my breath. Bile lurches up my stomach, and I slap my hand over my mouth, willing my body to solve itself.

I thought rest would make whatever is wrong with me go away, but it’s shown no sign of disappearing. Vertigo—or whatever the fuck I have—is a bitch. Pushing off the tree, I herd the chickens back into their cage. Then I check the containers along the way to the shed to store my board, seeing if the rain catchers need taping down or if the funnels and filters for the drums need fixing.

Ordus usually checks them—and the swing, hammock, and chair—every couple of days to make sure they’re all in perfect shape. I still like to do a once-over as well. Not that I don’t trust him, but sometimes, he’s modified it or improved it in a way I never thought of.

My footsteps slow as I approach Ordus. The threads of blue in his skin are more prominent next to the plastic, cyan drum.

I chew the inside of my cheek, watching the tendons in his back strain and feather as he tightens a bolt. Every inch of him is pure, hard muscle, each one prominent and bulging from years of honing them to lethal perfection.

Ordus glances back at me, eyes dropping to my bare legs for half a heated second before averting his attention back to the funnel.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Storm’s rolling in.”

He grunts.

Ordus never really talks anymore. At most, I’ll get a handful of short, clipped sentences.

Last week, I snapped at him because I spiraled over the fact that he only wants me at a shallow, physical level, so I told him he’s welcome to drop my ass back off on the mainland whenever he wants, and his mature response was to bare his canines at me and stalk off.

“How are your teeth?”

“Fine.” I bite back a smile. It’s one of three questions he only ever asks me—I think it might be his attempt at an inside joke.

He nods, and the would-be smile wipes off my face. Ordus may hate me, but his tentacle seeks me out the moment it notices me.

“What are you doing?” I probe, saying a mental hello to the appendage curling happily around my leg.

Something that feels unnervingly akin to butterflies erupts in my stomach when I spot my scrunchie still around his wrist. I haven’t seen him without it. Ordus kept his braid for four days after and only reluctantly took it out when there was more hair out of the braid than in it.

The same thing happened the other three times I offered to braid his hair.

“Checking on it.”

My shoulders slump. At the start, the silence was nice. I could seethe from afar, loathe him for putting me in a position where I had two options: go with him or pull the trigger, and I couldn’t do the latter. It was easier for me to pretend he’s the villain and I’m the victim, perfectly innocent to fault.

But the silence has grown claws that pierce soft tissue. Every drop of blood beading onto the surface is a reminder I’m complicit in all this.

My husband was a bad man. That alone made his hatred toward me understandable. To an extent. Ordus’ disinterest in me…it’s grating on my nerves. The little voice in my head screams it’s my own fault. My own supposed Goddess-sent soulmate doesn’t like me because all my splintered pieces have turned me ugly. I know that’s not the real reason why, though.

At the end of the day, Ordus has been the perfect jailer. He gives me more space than I’m finding I want. He’s doing everything he can to keep me fed and happy. He’s kept me safe like he promised, turned his barren island into my own slice of paradise.

And my perfect jailer is wishing he ended up with someone other than me.

I shift my weight. “I’ve checked the containers between here and the beach.”

Ordus grunts.

“Should I check the one near the eastern cliffs?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay, what about the northwest drum?”

Another shake.

I fist my hands. “Do you need help?”

“No.”

I take a deep breath, looking around for ideas on what to say. “Is there anything you need me to bring inside?” Sometimes he has pastes or seaweeds drying out.

“I’ve done it.” I wouldn’t say his tone is dismissive, but it’s definitely not suggesting he wants to keep talking.

I wipe my clammy hands on my soaked shirt. “I’ll, uh, make dinner so I don’t need to leave the cave once the storm hits.”

“It is already made.”

“Oh.” We take turns cooking. He likes to watch and learn, but he also likes surprising me. Or, at least, I think he likes it. Ordus usually hands the plate to me, face devoid of emotion, and grunts when I say thanks.

Once we’ve cleaned up after dinner, he leaves me to my own devices and only seeks me out when it's time for bed, when he wordlessly pulls me into his arms, and it becomes a race to see who falls asleep first—usually Vasz. He might be a little thing, but he can shake the walls with his snoring.

I clear my throat. “I’ll just…have a bath, then.”

“No.”

I frown. “Why not?” He’s usually very probathing, because I’m a lot happier when I can’t feel grime and saltwater sticking to my skin.

He finally—finally—looks at me. “Eat first. I want to show you something.”

I do as he says, mind whirling with possibilities. Maybe he hauled a water tank from the mainland, or a box of Kacang Disco. Or he could’ve stolen the solar panels I previously mentioned wanting—he does stuff like that very often. He might not talk or look like he’s interested, but he listens to every word I say.

I once asked if it were easy to catch crab or squid, if he’s ever tried human meat like chicken. The next day, he came back from hunting with both. A week later, I saw a chicken roaming around the island.

Now I am the mother of eight chickens, craned to me by boat in the dead of night, and much to Ordus’ confusion, I can’t bring myself to do more than cook their eggs.

Ordus says nothing when he shows up midway through my meal. I’m camped out in the chair he made, staring out the window. It’s too windy to sit outside only in my swimsuit and rash shirt.