by Amelia Wilde
The waterproof bag cooperates when I tie it to the buoy, then the buoy to myself via the tow rope.
And then I step to the railing of the ship.
For all the wood inside, it’s pure metal on the hull, metal sheets, metal bolts. And… yes. Metal ladders at intervals around the outside of the ship. My heart kicks up to full speed. It’s a different thing, looking down over the side of a ship when no one is actively trying to kill you.
Someone could be trying to kill me soon.
I close my eyes to the black, moonlit water and force myself to remember how it felt to have him so close, so angry. He was angry. And he wanted to act on it.
I saw those things in his eyes.
This is no time to question if I’d want that. No time for the small voice that won’t stop whispering about those eyes, those hands, that brutal beauty…
The railing is harder to climb than I thought it would be. Cold metal bites into my arches with every step. My thighs are trembling by the time I get my leg over the final one and inch my way over to the nearest ladder. Jesus, if there were ever a time for my feet not to be slippery, this would be it. I have no such luck. It would be a win either way, wouldn’t it? If I fall, then the end result would be the same.
Another stroke of luck—the ship is idling, not speeding away through the night. I never asked Poseidon why we’re going slowly enough that a person could get into the ocean without getting sucked under.
My pulse is louder than the surf when I get to the end of the ladder. I keep one hand on the buoy and the other on one rung of the ladder, my feet curling in a death grip. “Don’t think about it,” I whisper to myself. Saying it out loud doesn’t help. What I need to think about is jumping straight out. The ship isn’t moving fast but it is moving and this will all be pointless if I die from slamming my head against the ladder.
I have one single trick for entering the water.
It takes several deep breaths to put it into action.
The trick is to pretend that I’m not going to jump in, and then do it so suddenly that my body doesn’t have time to resist. I know this isn’t technically possible but I look out to the moon anyway. Pretend, pretend, pretend...
And jump.
I lose my grip on the buoy but it stays with me thanks to the tow rope. Fuck, it’s cold, it’s cold. Springtime doesn’t matter to the ocean. The chill squeezes all the air out of my lungs and I slap a hand over my mouth to disguise the gasp. Tingling nerves fire in my feet. If anything touches them now, I’ll scream.
“No screaming,” I choke out, and haul myself up and over the buoy. It’s bigger than the red and white one, but it doesn’t feel any more stable. From up here I can pull the waterproof bag up toward my face and dig out the compass.
It slips in my fingers.
I slap it against the side of the buoy, whispering a thousand fucks, and bring it slowly to my face.
My hand hurts right away from holding it so tight, but I point myself in an easterly direction and start kicking.
I don’t look back.
It takes almost no time to get outside the pool of light cast by the ship, and then it’s me and the moon and the pitch-dark sea. Small swells toy with me on the surface. The buoy presses my shirt—Poseidon’s shirt—tight against my skin. It rubs and rubs and I don’t think of the way he put his hand in my hair. Not once. Not ever.
I concentrate on getting to land. And putting the compass back in the bag, once I’m sure I’m going east.
Is there land in this direction? No guarantees. But the farther away I get from the ship, the safer I am from Poseidon. My heart thuds from the exercise now, not from the fear, not from that horribly delicious fear.
A splash in the dark freezes my legs into two unwieldy sticks and I twist, abs aching, to face the shark.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Poseidon says.
The shriek I’ve been holding in tears out of me and echoes across the waves. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your skinny ass from getting eaten.”
My teeth chatter but I kick at him anyway, trying to push myself away. He closes the distance. Poseidon is treading water in the middle of the ocean, and there’s no strain on his face. It’s like he’s standing on the deck of his ship.
“My boyfriend told me there weren’t sharks around here.” Shivers bite each of the words in two.
“The same boyfriend who got his head shot off by drug dealers?”
“Where’s your ship?” I don’t see it. A ship that size, with those lights, should look like the Empire State Building out here.
“It’s hidden, princess.”
“Hidden from what?”
“Sharks aren’t the only things to fear in these waters. Now let’s go.”
He reaches for the buoy. I wrench it away. “No.”
I make a turn and swim away from him, knots twisting in my calves. Poseidon catches an ankle and hauls me back through the water. “Not that way.”
“I’m not going with you.” Hot tears sting the salted corners of my eyes. “I’m going to find land.”
“You’re not.”
His hands work at the buoy. “What are you— No!”
Too late, I realize he’s undone the loop from around my waist and I’m not connected to it anymore. Poseidon tugs it swiftly, easily toward him, and I’m left scrabbling for it with wet hands. He holds up the waterproof bag and it disappears from sight. “So you’re a thief, too.”
“I’m leaving.” I summon the rest of my strength and try to pull the buoy back. “I need that.”
He laughs, and then the buoy is out of my hands, it’s in the air, arcing through the night sky. I let out a howl and turn. Fuck it. I’ll swim away.
My face meets water and then I’m under. I’m blinded, sinking fast. The water sucks at my clothes. My legs don’t work. I don’t have the strength to get back up, back up toward air—
A strong arm around my waist arrests my trip to the bottom of the sea.
The first breath is a gasping miracle. A gift from God.
But the devil is still touching me, and fuck this. Fuck him. I won’t. I shove both hands against his chest and get enough leverage to turn in his grip and kick him. He laughs again, and then his arm is gone from my waist. I’m free, I’m fucking free, and I’m going to save myself—
I go under again.
He repeats the process.
This time, I aim for his face, my body writhing against the sturdy lines of him in a way that sends sparks all through my skin. I can’t stop them but I can ignore them. He blocks my hand before I can make contact. “Fine.” It’s a bitten-off word for a bitten-off frustration. “Fine.” Fingernails on his shoulders. I’ll climb over him, if that’s what it takes.
He lets me do it. Lets me fall into the water and struggle.
Pulls me up again.
When I resurface he splashes me in the face.
It’s so much water that I choke on it, coughing, and I can feel him shaking with a laugh, like we’re in a pool together and he’s being playful and hot and not trying to capture me again. He has me pinned against him with one arm. “Come on, princess. That enough to shut you up?”
I lean into the circle of his arm and let myself drop straight down.
I feel every heartbeat.
One.
Two.
Three.
And then a fist in my hair is pulling me up, up, up. My scalp screams, but I don’t have the air to match it. “Again,” he says. “Again.”
I kick. I punch. I try to scratch him. None of it lands. He’s the water and I can’t touch him. He’s all around me and I can’t touch him. I can’t do any real damage. His strength is endless. It grows the longer we’re out here.
He lets me go a final time, and for a bare second, I’m floating on the surface, driving my arms into the water, trying to keep my head above the water. It hurts. Everything hurts. My arms, my legs, my neck. The water hooks its fingers in my clothes and pulls down har
d, salt water on my tongue. My arms fight against me, legs slowing, and—
“Please,” I beg. I don’t know who I’m begging. Poseidon to save me or the ocean to end this. “Please, please.”
There’s movement underneath me and he’s there, rising up out of the water, both arms solid beneath me, holding me up.
Holding me close.
I slump against him, pressing my face into his neck. The rest of me follows. I mold myself to him, arms around his neck, body pressed to his.
He’s warm.
Warm like bath water, out here in this cold hell.
He’s warm, and I’m so cold.
I press my lips to his neck and become aware of how hard I’m breathing, how fast. Panting.
Poseidon turns his head and he’s not breathing hard—of course he’s not—and one of his hands goes to the back of my head.
No room left between us, no sensation but the slick caress of water. There’s no close like being together in the ocean. His palm strokes over my hair, my neck, and finally his breath whispers over my cheek and my jaw. He takes in a big breath, and for the first time, it doesn't seem steady.
He kisses my cheekbone first and warmth bleeds out from the brush of his lips.
He kisses the place between my jaw and my ear, sensitive skin that’s hardly ever touched by anyone but me.
He kisses the front of my throat.
Licks me there.
I’m a heated puddle in a frigid ocean, all of me curled against all of him. Panting into the night sky. He cradles my head with one hand and brings my face to his.
It’s the first time I’ve really seen him. What he looks like in the ocean, warm and wet.
He’s fucking beautiful.
Droplets cling to his dark hair like diamonds. Like the water can’t bear to be away from him. I reach for his name, for anything to say, but there’s nothing to say in the face of this. Nothing, nothing.
Poseidon leans in and kisses me, full on the mouth. I’ve been hanging off him for who knows how long and it’s still a collision. The water around us doesn’t soften it at all. It’s like drowning, only it hurts less.
And it hurts more.
He flicks his tongue into my mouth, tasting me there, and I part my lips for him. This isn’t like when my head went under. He tastes like the sting of salt but better, so much better. There’s a noise at the back of my throat. I’m making it, but it doesn’t sound like me. Not any version of me I know.
Poseidon lingers over it, drawing it out of me again and again with his lips and teeth and tongue.
Until finally he pulls away.
In the moonlight, he’s all shadows and lines, a satisfied darkness at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go,” he says again.
This time, I can’t argue.
8
Poseidon
She’s smart enough not to fight me on the way back to the ship.
Smart enough, and tired enough. The princess put on a hell of a show out there. Didn’t get as far as she thought, but I don’t tell her that.
Back at the ship I put her over my shoulder and pull us both out of the water. For once I’m not craving the dive back in, not wishing for it. I don’t know what that says about me, or about her. It probably says more about the virtues of physical exercise than anything else.
Nicholas is waiting on deck, arms folded over his chest, glaring.
“If you’re not careful, your face will stay that ugly,” I tell him. I transfer Ashley from my shoulder to my arms. Her eyelashes flutter. Trying so hard to keep those eyes open, and it’s such a pointless task.
“How long were you planning to stay out there?”
“This long.”
He purses his lips, and I can tell he’s weighing whether his next words will be worth getting thrown overboard for. “I ran a bath.”
“Good choice. You’re in charge this shift.”
“Lucky me.” Nicholas’s voice floats after us. No, I did not strictly give notice before I went after Ashley. It’s not usually my custom to abandon ship without warning, but sometimes a princess with a death wish calls.
I take her to the bathroom and strip off her clothes. Ashley helps this time, standing up while I do it, and when I pick her up to put her in the bath she opens her eyes. “You’re not mad?” She lets out a hiss as the water touches her skin. It’ll feel scorching, but it’s not.
“No. I’m entertained.”
“That’s—” I dip a washcloth in the water and skim it up over her chest, her shoulders. Over two perfect tits. She’s so cold she doesn’t feel it anymore. No shiver response. Either that, or I kept her warm enough. “That’s not nice,” she whispers.
“If someone told you I was nice, they lied.”
Ashley closes her eyes again and lets me bathe her. Wash the ocean out of her hair. Rinse. I want to be irritated about this, about constantly having to rescue her and strip her and put her in clean, hot water, but I can’t summon it.
All I can summon is the memory of her lips on mine.
She’s practically asleep when I lift her out of the tub, but she puts a hand on one of my shoulders and stands while I towel her off.
It’s painful, touching her like this. Painful in multiple ways. But there are lines not to cross, and so forth.
When she’s dry, I work a comb through her hair, dress her in a shirt that’s large and loose enough for my purposes, and put her into the bed. Ashley’s sleeping before I draw the blankets up to her chin.
I leave one ankle out.
That’s all I need.
I keep the ball and chain in a drawer with other things that don’t have a place. This piece isn’t authentic anymore—the ball is original, according to the man who gifted it to me, but the chain is newer, and the ankle clasp newer still. It won’t cut her when she tries to walk.
Ashley’s breathing doesn’t change, not so much as a hitch, when I fasten it around her ankle and put the ball on the floor. The key goes into my pocket. And then I turn off the light by the bed and let the moonlight settle over us.
I’m tired. Pleasantly tired. So I take my usual chair by the bed for a minute, meaning to get up and bother Nicholas, meaning to do almost anything else but fall into a light sleep. The whispering starts almost immediately. Wordless, barely audible, like a second-by-second report from the sea that it exists.
A horrified gasp turns into a strangled scream and slaps me awake. Ashley’s sitting up in the bed, blankets thrown off, both hands clawing at her ankle. “What is this? What did you do?”
I stretch in the chair. “I wouldn’t try swimming now, if I were you.”
She lunges for me. Good. I catch all her momentum in my hands and pin her to the bed, her eyes wide and furious, her whole body alive with her struggle.
I’m alive with her.
Because as much as the runaway princess wants me to believe she hates this, her body tells me the truth. The blows across my chest are an invitation. Her hips thrashing against the bed are a promise.
I could take her wrists in one hand and hold her in place, but I don’t. I let her keep up her battle. It’s like a butterfly fighting a hurricane.
And that’s what I feel like—a hurricane. High winds and unpredictable twists and turns. My control ebbs away like the tide and I fucking want this. I want her. I want her to see me. But I want my mouth on her more, so I lean down and lick the side of her neck.
Ashley lets out a noise that’s half moan and half sob, turning her face away to expose more of her neck. Another invitation. Her fists beat at my chest, but they’re worse than useless. I nip her over the trail of my tongue. I take her chin in my hand and turn her head until her cheek is pressed against the pillow and the pad of my thumb meets frustrated tears.
I lick those, too, and her fine-boned jaw opens in my hand. Her lips give me a whimper that very nearly makes me come in my own pants.
“Please.” That’s a favorite of hers, that please. I can’t help but notice that it’s not ple
ase don’t. It’s not Poseidon, stop. It’s shameful. It’s hot.
I bite her earlobe and laugh, then push her thighs apart with one hand. Ashley stops trying to leave bruises on my chest and reaches for the hem of the shirt. It’s too late. I’ve got it shoved up around her waist, and I shove it up higher to show her who owns the damned thing. Her hands search for it, try to push it down. I like that. I fucking like it. I like the way her hips beg me to touch her while she pretends they’re not.
I stroke a finger down the inside of her thigh toward her knee, daring her to close her legs.
She cries harder and opens them another inch.
“Again,” I tell her.
Ashley’s got her fists around the hem of my shirt, grip tight. She sets her jaw under my hand, gritting her teeth. It’s not from my touch. It’s because she can’t stop making those sounds.
She can’t stop herself from trying her hardest to part those thighs a little more, a little more…
I cup a palm over her pussy and she slams into my hand like a magnet. There are no more tears under my fingertips. I feel her open her mouth to take quick, panting breaths, like she did on the water.
She’s warmer now. Hot. Perfectly smooth, the way I’d expect a rich socialite to be. I can feel all of her under my hand, all her delicate flesh, her clit swollen and so fucking needy. Ashley will never admit this out loud. She doesn’t have to.
I center the heel of my hand over her clit. She writhes underneath the pressure. It’s enough to let her know I’m there but not enough to get her off. A tease. Payback for trying to swim away from me so damn many times.
I drag my touch through her sweetness and take my hand away so I can shove my fingers accusingly in her face. “Wet. You can’t hide this, princess.”
She shakes her head, but not hard enough to break my grip. Almost like she’s testing it. Her lips open and close, eyelashes fluttering. No words.
I lean in and bite her bottom lip at the same time I aim my hand back between her legs in a stinging slap. “Stop trying to fuck me, or I’m going to think you want it.”
Ashley goes still in my hands. She didn’t know what she was doing until now. Didn’t know that her fight was nothing but another performance. Her stillness isn’t perfect. She’s holding the motion in her bones and shaking from it. All she can do is let go of the hem of my shirt with one hand and dig it into the mattress. Push her heels in, too.