POV: Beth
We made camp on the beach, the storm miles behind us now. The fire burned low, orange light licking the edges of Alaric’s face as he sat opposite me. His shirt was torn at the shoulder where a coral shard had grazed him. I’d offered to stitch it. He’d laughed.
Now the silence between us was worse than the fight had been.
Kaine and Tammers had wandered down the shore to guard the boats, leaving just us and the fire’s crackle.
“You’re staring,” he said at last.
“I’m wondering how you’ve survived this long without a brain.”
He laughed quietly. “Luck. And charm.”
“Both running out.”
The humor faded from his eyes. “You think saving me once makes you my equal?”
I met his gaze across the flames. “I think it makes me someone you can’t dismiss.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You think I dismiss you?”
“You call me princess every time you run out of words.”
“It suits you.”
“It insults me.”
“Same thing.”
My pulse quickened. I hated that he could twist every word. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s what makes me interesting.”
“Interesting?” I threw a shell into the fire. It hissed. “You’re a storm in a human shape, Alaric. You don’t care who you wreck.”
His expression hardened. “Careful, Beth. You’re not the only one who knows how to cut deep.”
“Then say it.”
He rose, crossing to me in three strides. The firelight made his shadow long. “You want to know why I push you? Why I laugh when you fight back?”
I stood too. “Because you enjoy humiliating people weaker than you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because you’re not weak, and it terrifies me that you might prove it.”
The air between us went still. Only the fire moved.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” I whispered.
“I think you’re everything the sea promised me and everything it’ll take away.”
I swallowed hard. “You make no sense.”
“Good.” His voice roughened. “Then maybe you’ll stop looking at me like you want to understand.”
“I don’t—”
He reached out, grabbing my wrist—the one with the mark. His thumb brushed over it. “This thing binds you to the sea. To magic. To danger. You don’t even know what you are yet.”
“And you do?”
“I know you’re going to drown one of us before this ends.”
The words hit like a wave. I yanked my hand free. “Then why keep me on your ship?”
“Because I’d rather drown beside you than watch from the shore.”
For a second, no one breathed. The fire popped.
My throat tightened. “You think words like that make you noble?”
“No,” he said. “They make me honest.”
We stared at each other, too close, too raw. The air burned hotter than the flames.
I took a step back before I did something stupid. “You’re impossible,” I said again, softer this time.
He huffed a laugh, low, tired. “And you’re trouble.”
“Then maybe we deserve each other’s disasters.”
He smirked faintly, then turned away, dropping to sit by the fire again. “Get some sleep, princess.”
I wanted to argue. Instead, I sat too, hugging my knees, watching the fire paint gold on his jaw.
We didn’t speak again. The silence wasn’t peace—it was a blade balanced between us, one spark away from cutting open everything we refused to say.
When I finally lay down, the last thing I saw was his silhouette against the dying light—head bowed, hands loose, as if holding something invisible and dangerous.
The night wind carried salt, smoke, and all the words neither of us were brave enough to speak.