Wet sand squeezed between her toes and caught on the webbing. The water trapped between the grains was fine to touch. She was still here and alive, after all. But if she stepped foot in the ocean, supposedly her life would no longer be her own. That’s what Dad said.
She’d only tried to touch it once. Her father had sprinted after her and tackled her into the sand. The tears in his eyes, the panic, the sheer fear had made his entire frame shudder. River had never tried to touch the sea again.
Even if he was maybe a little crazy, he still didn’t want her there. For good reason, she supposed, even if it wasn’t because her mother’s people would drag her beneath the waves.
She lifted a hand and saluted the ocean. “Bye mum. Thanks for another amazing afternoon.”
Sarcasm.
On her way back home, she planned her afternoon accordingly. Dad would get back from work at five, so she needed to have dinner ready by then. He refused to hire a chef, not because he didn’t have the money, because he said she needed to learn the skills to live on her own.
He’d buy her a house when she wanted to leave. Probably the one next door, if she was thinking realistically.
What was it the kids at school had called her? “Spoiled Princess River,” she muttered, kicking the sand with her foot for good measure.
She was. That was the most frustrating thing about the nickname. She couldn’t argue with anyone who called her spoiled or a princess, because she was. Her father had made it so, even without her demanding materialistic things.
All River wanted was a normal life. A way to escape from all the money and banquets and the name attached to her own. Every time she went in town, it was like everyone held their breath. What would she do? Would she follow in her father’s footsteps and become a successful business woman? Would she change the world with her father’s money at her beck and call?
River didn’t know! She hadn’t even gone to college because her father needed her here. Besides, he didn’t believe in an institution where she had to pay money to learn things she could learn in practice instead of lecture.
She might have liked college. She might have enjoyed escaping this insignificant town by the sea and finding her own way. But that didn’t match her father’s opinion, and no one else’s mattered.
Though her thoughts wandered, she still found her eyes on the ocean. A turtle crawled pitifully out of the sea, shoving its body through the sand and breathing hard. It fiercely made its way past the heavy slaps of waves. Every movement was labored. River imagined everything was more difficult with a net tangled all over its body, dragging behind it.
“Oh no,” she whispered. River dropped the bag on her shoulder and sprinted across the beach.
Just as she reached the turtle, the ocean waves reached for her. She flinched away from them, dancing back, too far from the turtle to help.
Damn the waves. Damn her father’s superstition that had created her fear in the first place.
River dropped to her knees and opened her arms wide. “Come on,” she said, waving her hands as if that might make the creature hurry. “Come to me. I can help. You just have to get close enough.”
Every lumbered movement was a struggle for the poor turtle. The net was easily fifteen feet long, and every wave sucked it back. But the turtle made it to her.
River hooked her hands underneath its flippers and dragged it up the beach. When she was finally a safe distance away, she started her work freeing the poor thing.
The net had dug into all the turtle’s flesh, creating ragged wounds that bled over her fingers. It flapped, trying to get away from her, or maybe just trying to help.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered as she worked on another loop that had worn away at the turtle’s shell. The webbing between her fingers made it difficult to untie the creature. “I’m so sorry, I know this must hurt.”
The creature didn’t respond, although she hardly expected it to. If only animals could speak, maybe they could ask for help.
Finally, she untangled the turtle and released it from her hold. It shuffled along through the sand, only pausing when it reached a destination fifteen feet from River.
Then it started scratching. Pushing and digging in the sand.
“Oh,” she sighed. “You’re going to lay eggs, aren’t you?”
What luck! She was so thankful to be here when the turtle needed help, but also that in a few short months she could assist the babies in joining their mother at sea.
River sprinted back to her bag and pulled out her notebook. The first page was reserved for reminders. She scratched them out with a pen once they were completed. All she had to do was write this one down as well.
Pen cap in her mouth, she garbled, “June eighteenth. Turtle eggs.” For good measure, she also drew a few tiny baby turtles around the word before capping the pen and sliding the sketchbook back into her bag.
“A job well done, mama,” she called out to the turtle. The creature didn’t even look at her, nor did it thank her for the help. But that was all right. Sometimes helping other people was a thankless job.
She doffed an imaginary hat and then rushed back to her home. Freeing the turtle had taken some time, and her father would expect her to at least be home when he arrived. Dinner didn’t have to be on the table, but she still felt guilty if it wasn’t.
The house appeared on the rise above the ocean. It was built on the edge of a cliff with a large porch stretching out over the stone. One story and mostly windows, the building was a work of modern art.
Behind the porch was a pool, grill, outdoor kitchen, and a fireplace made of stone and sea glass. Her father had spared no expense in making the house a paradise.
White stairs carved into the side of the cliff met the beach where River stood. She placed her hand on the railing and stared up at the few remaining stairs.
Back to the dungeon. Back to a home most people would have been honored to live in. They’d consider themselves lucky to even have a chance at the life she led.
So why did it feel so suffocating sometimes?
Ungrateful, that’s what she was.
River made her way up the stairs, curling her webbed fingers into her palms.
About the Author
Elizabeth Frost is the pen name of USAToday Bestselling author Emma Hamm. You’ll find these stories to be steamy paranormal/urban fantasy, whereas the ones under Emma Hamm will be less steamy and more traditional fantasy worlds.
So if you want spice, you want Frost ;)
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