Live to Venture (#0)

09 | The Hate of Adventure

Novari counted all the things she'd done wrong.

One: her initial falter, right when he leaned in close. Two: not laying it on thick enough to fully distract him. Three: her reaction when he'd called her out on her mother. First allowing him to confirm it, second letting him win by losing her composure.

She hated the faux confidence that he wore so well, the faint smell of wax and the way his skin still tasted of the ocean even after days in that awful room-smelling room. She hated his mind, she hated how much smarter he was than he pretended to be. She hated his tolerance for pain. She hated his laugh and his assumptions of her, but the thing she truly despised were those beautiful eyes. She lived through the minds of people, through the emotions they showcased in their eyes and faces. She focused on them, made a point to understand and catalogue them. She was the one with the shocking eyes, but he almost had her. She could see the waves, see the perfect experiment he became to her.

Novari lived her mistakes over and over again, analyzing all the ways it went wrong, all the ways she could've done better. She relived her humiliating moment again and again in an attempt to reconcile with herself that it wasn't so bad, but that just made it worse.

When she had nothing more to offer herself but sizzling hot embarrassment, she left the building and headed down to the port. Canale's port—and Canale, for that matter, was almost always gloomy and rainy, the utter embodiment of hell.

The Avourienne was docked near the cliffs, so she dismissed the two men who were guarding it as she boarded. It looked the same as it had that night, the crimson sails as red as the blood staining the balcony steps where she'd accidentally cracked open Bardarian's head. Nobody had cleaned it, and now it stained; it would probably be there forever.

She took the balcony steps two at a time, the cool breeze drifting as she pushed at the doors. The captain's quarters were warmer, hidden from the wind.

It was dark, the polished wood glinting back at her.

She hadn't searched the ship; that had been a bald-faced lie. She knew Bardarian wouldn't have it anywhere where it could be found, and therefore it would've been a waste of her time to search it.

Now, though, there could be something in here that could give her an edge—a way to worm into his head like he'd done with hers.

She ran a hand over the wood, not a sliver to be found. She spun around and sat in his chair, finding it to be quite uncomfortable. She leaned back, looking at the room. There was power to this position, to the thought of ruling a crew from this place. There was freedom in it, without a doubt.

She reached forward and opened the drawer to her right. There were papers in there—deeds and deals with ports and businesses. She flipped through each one. There was ink and blank papers. There were seals and envelopes. Nothing that would help her.

She moved on to the left side. Much of the same. The last drawer on the bottom left had a lock on it, and she couldn't quite pull it open.

She glanced around, then wedged her knife in the opening and stood, bringing her foot down hard on the hilt of the knife. The lock tore the wood out and splintered the side. She kicked the splints down and glanced inside.

There was a pistol inside, nothing else. She pulled it out and examined it. It was a pretty thing, with a heavy black body and a red barrel—the same colours as the Avourienne. She figured the two belonged to each other, so she put it back. She didn't have much use for it.

She glanced at the captain's room. She stood, making her way over carefully as she pushed open the door.

The room was simple. The bed was large and unmade, the blankets tossed aside and a pillow near the foot of the bed. There was a pair of extra boots on the ground and a nightstand on the right side. Near the window was a dresser. She opened all the drawers, but there was nothing but clothes.