Letters She Wrote | Outer Banks

𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭

[ xxiii. the royal merchant ]

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THE NEXT MORNING, WILLA Deveraux found herself violently heaving over the side of Pope Heyward's father's boat. With trembling jeweled fingers wrapped tightly against the starboard side's edge, it took all the nauseous girl's power to keep standing upright as her knees threatened to buckle. Wave after wave of acidity sick pummeled her, curdling her burning stomach with an unforgiving stab of prickling pain after every shaking breath she released.

To the confusion of the four teenage pogues that moved restlessly around her, Willa was not sick because of the unpredictability of JJ's firm hand on the wheel, the boy determined to keep the unsteadily rocking boat in a certain place against the choppiness of a brewing sea.  Rather she was sick by the unsettled nerves in her stomach. Because even though she was currently in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Willa's body and mind were still trapped in the echoes of yesterday.  Her entire being was still frozen on her front doorstep where her house key had been left behind by a stranger. A stranger who could have easily broken into her house and taken anything and harmed anyone that they pleased.

As this horrifically cruel and haunting thought washed over her, Willa abruptly emptied another round of bile into the salty waves below. Her running nose was stinging, and her ears were rining with the clashing of loud and sudden noises, coming from both the boat and the sea.  Her long-since clenched eyes watered painfully, the warm trickles of water making their way down her cold and clammy cheeks and staining her slim neck.

"You know, you could have told us you get seasick," JJ Maybank clipped out from somewhere over Willa's shoulder.

The Deveraux daughter slowly lifted her head, thankful that Kiara had been quick to pull her curly hair back after the first explosion of vomit, and looked towards the cabin of the boat where JJ lingered.  The arrogant and snide blonde was watching her closely out of the corner of his sunglass-covered eyes.  From where he stood in the cabin's threshold, Willa could see that he was now barefoot, having abandoned his leather boots upon boarding. Now, he was the epitome of comfort meets bedhead: perfectly content in dark swimmer shorts that contrasted against a bright red ball cap and a long-sleeved, billowy white t-shirt.

How the hell JJ was willingly wearing a long-sleeved shirt in this middle of July was beyond Willa. Despite the fact that they were on the water, the air was still humid and uncomfortably hot.

Then again, she supposed, devils did thrive in heat.

"I'm not seasick," Willa bit back. Nonetheless, her timid shoulders still lurched as her body gave up control once more to the tremors that continued to thrash through her. "I'm just sick."

JJ scoffed and turned away, entirely unconvinced. His sharp and bitter attitude, though, was enough to strike a match in Willa's weakened system and she slowly pushed herself upright. Her arms and legs were still shaky as she stood tall, but she no longer felt as if she were going to throw up again. She was certain that her stomach was finally empty. No matter, Willa still clung close to the edge of the boat and held a wary hand up when John B. Routledge attempted to approach her.