Live to Venture (#0)

24 | The Declaration of Adventure

Most deckhands, especially those slaving away on the Avourienne, fell asleep the moment they were released for the day, but not Novari. Her joints were unstrained and her muscles felt no exhaustion, but her mind was deeply rooted in both. Instead of downing a bottle of rum over harmless conversation and heading to her room like everyone else, she found her one salvation in exacting revenge on Bardarian.

To her, it wasn't a matter of what for, just a matter of how. To her, it was irrelevant that revenge was probably more torturous to herself than to him. To her, all that mattered was the sting of him pushing back on her hand, the shattering feeling of finally not being the one to draw the line, but rather having it drawn by someone else right in front of you.

It infuriated her beyond words, made her feel even more powerless than ever. And so, when Novari was done her tasks for the day, she made an effort to trail Everson. If he went to the common room, she sat with him. If he went to his room, she followed him there. She kept one hand on him at all times, intent on dousing Bardarian in as much jealousy as was humanly possible. As far as anyone else could tell, it made no difference to the Captain that his first mate and deckhand were as infatuated as ever, even after their gory display on the deck. Novari, though, could see the cords in his neck shift ever so slightly when Everson whispered her something, could see some muscle in his jaw tic when she would reply. Those moments were her only solace, the only thing that kept her in the first mate's room when the sky went down and the space turned dark. After he did what he wanted to her, after the ship was silent and the thoughts crept in.

She watched the waves flicker on the far wall, Everson's heavy arm slung over her waist. The air was musty and thick, the ship's cat nestled deep into Novari's stomach. Whale followed her everywhere, hesitating only when she entered this room. The cat would reluctantly pad in after her, refusing to leave her side until the sun came up.

Behind her, Everson let out a long sigh as he slept. Eyes wide open, Novari reached out to touch Whale's fur, her fingers warm. In her room, the cat purred. In here, he never did. She didn't like sleeping next to anyone, but she preferred the cat to Adrian, who loved to wrap an arm over her shoulders and slide it up over her chest like a trap.

Heart thumping steadily, she turned to face him, watching him sleep silently. She liked to know he was there, see what he was doing at all times. Noticing the bandage on his neck had slipped, she reached out to pull it back up, but her hand froze.

The skin underneath the bandage was smooth and blemish-free. There was nothing wrong with him. No scar, no blood from such a deadly injury. He was completely fine, and the bandage was fake.

He caught her wrist. His black eyes were open, the same colour as the darkness behind him.

"There's no scar," Novari whispered.

He searched her face but said nothing. He held tight to her wrist.

"How is that possible?" she whispered again. To her mind, it was unfathomable.

He tugged up the bandage, letting go of her wrist. He pushed at her shoulder, turning her away once more. She felt his chest against her back, that arm over her waist. He shoved the cat off the bed, and it mewled as it fell to the floor.

He pulled her closer, his breath on her neck, a hand wrapped around her stomach. "Tell a soul what you saw," he murmured, "and I'll kill you, doll."

Novari didn't usually feel things like fear, but tonight she thought she might've felt it swirling around in the pit of her chest. She could deal with talented fighters, with skilled tacticians and cunning men—but harbouring no scar from a deadly injury only days after it happened? How was anyone supposed to compete with whatever the hell that entailed?