Arms of the Ocean

Chapter 2

I slowly approached the Midsummer's Eve festival, the village already alive with music and laughter. There were too many people dancing, drinking, and celebrating for my presence to be clandestine, and those cursed lanterns were strung as expected, glowing with a vibrant red in the summer's night, removing any and all shadows I could have used as cover.

The upside to the promise I'd made, I realized as walked along the outskirts of the partygoers' dancing circle, was that every tavern within the village would be open for patrons, and my search for my father's imbibement would only need to go as far as the nearest pub. So long as I kept my head down and my eyes forward, I would be able to enter, get what I needed, and return to the cabin before Papa awoke, yelling for more.

"Tristaine."

I stopped in my tracks, blood freezing into ice.

"I wasn't expecting you to escape from that hellhole you call home at least until morning."

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, turning on my heels to face the one person I would have preferred to see bobbing under the ocean's waves, never to resurface.

"Fiero," I responded with the same distaste he had spat at me.

What I wouldn't have given to smack the self-satisfied smirk from his face as his dark eyes roamed freely over my body, but the less attention I brought to myself, the better. He stood a head taller than me and I took a step back so I wouldn't have to arch my neck as I continued to glare at him.

It wasn't that Fiero was unattractive. Smoldering dark eyes with high cheekbones and a deep-set jaw had many of the local girls fawning over him. No, he definitely wasn't unattractive... he was just an ass. At least he was alone tonight and not with his usual entourage of village girls desperately hoping to one day be the young lord's wife.

He had grown up in our village—we'd even gone to school together—but when he was fourteen, his father received a lordship due to an ancient uncle who had never conceived his own children. After that he had moved to some inland town that I couldn't be bothered to remember the name of.

Like the others in the village, he wore his festival best, though his was made of silk versus the linen that the villagers wore. His ash blond hair was tied back to fall behind his shoulders. Why he chose to come back here on Midsummer instead of some more glamourous celebration day was beyond me. Maybe he wanted to flaunt his new "wealth" to the fishing town he grew up in, finally proof that he was always better than us.

"What do you want?" I snapped. I just wanted to go home, give Papa the ale, and maybe sneak another glance at the sea before retreating to my small loft room and sleeping.

He crossed his sculpted arms in front of his chest. The smirk remained. "That, there, is the question to ask, isn't it?"

I huffed and turned from him, but his hand grabbed my arm, harder than necessary, and he pulled me back to face him.

"We're having a conversation, Tristaine. It's rude to turn away when someone is talking to you."

"Well, I am done talking to you," I responded through clenched teeth, trying to rip my arm from his grasp, but his grip only tightened.

He pulled me closer, and I could smell the familiar scent of ale on him. Fiero had clearly begun celebrating earlier in the day. I attempted to hold my breath to keep from gagging.

"You'll be done when I say you're done." He smiled threateningly. "When will you come to your senses, Tristaine? You're better than that shabby cabin. You deserve better."

"And I suppose you know what I deserve?"

He grabbed my other arm, blocking any chance of pulling away as he held onto me tight—too tight. My breath caught in my chest.