The Six: Genesis | A Reverse Harem Novel

Seventy-Three

The horizon fades to dark blue as I clear the bushes walling off the walkway to the public marina. Two catamarans lazily bob in their slips, radiating in the sun. Four smaller fishing boats sit on the other side, two with blue hulls and the others with white.

A pair of dark slashes dart across the empty sea a kilometer out. Jet skis. They move further out as I move closer, sauntering casually until I find the owner of a fishing boat. Despite the heat burning through the muscles in my legs, I keep a smile on my face and show him the ad in the local newspaper.

He's an easy mark to make a few hundred. In three hours, he's looking for a happy couple to return for their first pre-paid fishing experience, but I won't be back. And luckily, my presence is noted by the remaining men and women who linger.

If my calculations are correct, Bane should arrive behind me in about two hours. Then, he'll wait for me to return. I'm hoping to buy two hours of his time. Hopefully, by the time he realizes I won't be back, I'll be halfway to the bed and breakfast hidden in the forest.

As I pass, the remaining people study my appearance critically, judgment clear in their gazes, but thankfully, don't approach. Surely, I must look like death warmed over. Running, hidden and falling nearly two meters to my death would do this to a person.

Perhaps, once they speak to the fisher, he'll weave a sweetened tale of love. I hope so. I need them to buy it.

The longer the fisherman sells his tale, the longer I have to put distance between us. I don't want to see Charlie and I sure as shit don't want to see his fuck-off of a brother.

His words wear on me.

It wasn't more than what I'd already guessed, but to hear them from someone else... it broke something within me. Absent-mindedly, I rub my chest above my heart. At my next breath, the organ tugs ruefully. I hate it.

I hate feeling this way. I hate questioning myself. And mostly, I hate how much I still love that fucking asshole.

No matter how much I yell at myself, my heart longs for him—for his embrace, his smile, his laughter, and the teasing way he'd call me his cursed nickname. To know it was a lie brings a fresh flood of tears to my eyes, but I won't cry. Not yet.

I don't think it would hurt as much if my body wasn't also screaming in pain.

Truthfully, my bones and muscles still ache. Regret for jumping was instantaneous. The wind whipped woefully at the tablecloth I'd chosen. My main fear was the possibility of rain turning my makeshift parachute into a wet mop and thrusting me from the sky.

I offer a saturnine, love-stricken expression and lope whimsically as I move toward the city center. Unfortunately, cameras are everywhere. Opal is a haven for the lawless, criminal and downright reckless because of the massive port and heavily traveled trade routes by train.

Easy to get in, not so easy to get out. Especially unnoticed.

Iris scans my vision as I saunter along the wide, well-paved streets, weaving around the locals. They wear their casual dress, long tunics in cool tones of blue, brown and tan with thin knee-length shorts matched to heavy-soled sandals. Dust kicks up, radiating along the path, screening me from the main set of cameras.

The deeper I delve, the more advanced the cameras become.

To protect the bustling marketplace, cameras weather a bird's eye view from glowing street lamps. Light bubbles along the short bricked buildings, bending at the corners. Red dots twinkle from dead eyed lens.

Surreptitiously, I tuck my jacket closer and intentionally head toward the rear of the market and away from the food and jewelry to find the tents of the tanners. They sit on the west end, under a sweeping canopy of tan and brown tents. A proud man dressed in the finest clothes I've seen since entering Opal stands at the center, admiring his silhouette in a mirror.