Chapter 21
The night Blackwater asked about her weaknesses, the ship changed. The familiar deep-sea rocking became erratic. Random. The rhythm Lyralei had learned to trust disappeared. Every creak in the wood sounded deliberate now. Every shadow looked like him approaching.
She lay in her hammock. The wooden planks above her head felt like a coffin lid pressing down. She held her breath. Her muscles locked tight. She waited for his footsteps. For his hand on the door. For whatever test he'd planned next.
He never came.
That was the real torture. Blackwater's power lived in his absence. In the weight of what didn't happen. He'd left her alone with his question about her weaknesses. Now her own mind built the cage. She lay rigid. Sleepless. Her thoughts consumed her while she waited.
The curse bond hummed in her skull. Faint. Constant. She could feel him somewhere on the ship. Awake. Thinking. Planning. The psychic thread between them pulled taut. It ached when she tried to ignore it.
Lyralei's siren magic stirred restlessly under her skin. Her glamour flickered. Scales appeared on her forearms, then vanished when she focused. Her control was slipping. The waiting was eating through her defenses faster than any physical test.
By dawn, she was exhausted. Not from lack of sleep—sirens didn't need much. But from the constant vigilance. The mental strain of expecting an attack that never came.
When Blackwater finally appeared, the air changed. Lyralei felt him before she saw him. The curse bond tightened. A cold pressure settled over the deck like frost.
She spun from the rail. Her muscles coiled. Ready.
He stood near the mainmast. Not looking at her face. His eyes tracked lower. Cataloging. He studied her stance. Her weight distribution. The tension in her shoulders. Like an engineer examining a flaw in metal. Like a predator memorizing prey.
The crew saw it. They gave them wide space. Men moved quickly. Eyes down. No one wanted to be caught between the captain and the siren.
Lyralei's grip tightened on the rail. Wood groaned under her fingers. Splinters bit into her palm. Her skin stretched taut over bone. The salt spray stung. She locked her jaw. Refused to flinch.
"You stand like a soldier," Blackwater said. His voice was low. Measured. He moved closer without sound. Lyralei's stomach clenched. She hadn't heard him approach. That failure burned.
"Your back is always to a wall." He walked a slow circle around her. His eyes never left her body. "Your eyes track every exit."
He stopped behind her. Lyralei felt his presence like heat on her spine. The curse bond pulsed. She could sense his focus. His curiosity. The cold calculation running through his mind.
"Why?" The question was soft. Almost gentle. That made it more dangerous.
"Tactical awareness." The words came out rough. Defensive.
His mouth curved. A slow, knowing smile. "No. You're not being tactical. You're being hunted. Even here. Even now. You move like prey pretending to be predator."
He'd seen through her. Past the siren glamour. Past the centuries of survival instincts. He saw the fear underneath.
Lyralei hated him for it. But more, she hated that he was right.
The curse bond flared. She felt his satisfaction. His dark pleasure at cracking another layer of her defenses. It made her want to rip his throat out. But that would only prove his point.
*
Blackwater knew her defenses relied on control. On anticipation. On being ready for threats before they arrived. So he shattered that control with chaos.
Three days later, the storm came.
Rain fell in sheets. Not drops—solid walls of water. The wind screamed through the rigging. A high, continuous note that drowned out thought. The ship bucked like a wild animal trying to throw them off.
Blackwater summoned her to the bow. The most exposed position on the ship. Where the waves hit hardest.
Lyralei went. She had no choice. The curse bond pulled. Disobedience caused pain. She'd learned that the hard way.
The deck rose steeply beneath her feet. Then dropped. Her stomach lurched. Black water rushed up toward them. The ship fell into a valley between waves. For a moment, the ocean towered on both sides. Dark. Hungry.
Water crashed over the rail. Ice-cold. It hit her chest like a fist. Knocked the air from her lungs. The deck tilted. Her feet slid. She grabbed a rope. Her hands scrambled for purchase on wet wood.
"Do you fear the sea, Lyralei?"
Blackwater's voice cut through the wind. He stood firm. Feet planted. Unaffected by the chaos. His eyes were bright. Challenging.
He was testing her identity. Trying to force her to rely on her siren nature. To break the human glamour she maintained.
Anger flared hot in Lyralei's chest. "I am a siren. What—"
CRACK.
Chapter 22
The sound was a whip. Sharp. Violent. A shroud line snapped high in the rigging. Thick as a man's forearm. It fell fast. A black blur against gray sky.
It hit the deck inches from her boots. The impact shook the wood. The rope lay coiled. Smoking where friction had burned it.
Lyralei didn't move her feet. Didn't step back. She kept her eyes fixed on Blackwater's face. But inside her ribs, her heart slammed. A trapped fist beating against bone. Her breath locked. She tasted copper. The metallic tang of fear.
The storm noise went distant. All she could hear was blood roaring in her ears.
Her siren magic surged. Defensive. Protective. Scales rippled across her neck. Her eyes flashed silver. The glamour cracked.
Blackwater raised one eyebrow. That was all. It was a cold acknowledgment. I know what breaks you now.
He walked past her. Secured the broken line. His movements were easy. Precise. He'd chosen that moment. Chosen that rope. Calculated the exact instant it would snap.
Lyralei wanted to kill him. Her hands shook with rage. With humiliation. She shoved them behind her back. Locked her fists tight. Hid the weakness.
"Interesting," Blackwater murmured. He walked away without looking back.
The curse bond hummed. Satisfied. Sated. He'd gotten what he wanted.
*
The storm revealed her fear of sudden violence. Now Blackwater tested distance. The space at which her control would buckle under silent, calculated pressure.
A week passed. The crew watched them both. Nervous. Waiting for the next confrontation.
Blackwater found her in the galley. The room was small. Warm. It smelled of bread and brine. Familiar. Almost comforting.
He didn't speak. Just filled a tin mug with water. His broad frame blocked the only exit. Deliberate. Casual.
The air thinned immediately.
He leaned against the counter beside her. Close enough that she felt heat radiating from his coat. The curse bond pulled tight. Awareness flooded through the connection. She could feel his body temperature. His steady heartbeat. His focus locked entirely on her.
Lyralei's muscles tightened. A barely visible tremor ran through her left hand.
He noticed. He always noticed.
"Long watch tonight," he said. The words were meaningless. Filler. He was testing reaction. Not content.
He didn't move. Didn't shift away. Just stood there. Waiting.
Lyralei scrubbed a clean plate. The scraping sound was too loud in the silence. Desperate. Her lungs burned. She was holding her breath without realizing it.
Finally, Blackwater took a slow sip of water. Then he pushed off the counter. Agonizingly slow. His shoulder brushed her arm. Deliberate. Heavy contact.
His eyes met hers. One icy, knowing moment. I see how close you'll let me stand before you break.
He'd found the line. Marked it. Memorized it.
The curse bond flared. She felt his satisfaction like ice water in her veins.
*
His next attack came three days later. Not with closeness. With something more primal.
Lyralei was alone in the narrow passage between the armory and stores. Sharpening a small silver dagger. The grind of stone against metal was rhythmic. Meditative. She felt safer when her hands were busy. When her tools were sharp.
The door to the mess hall kicked open. Heavy. Sudden.
Blackwater stood in the frame. Face neutral. He held something.
A fish. Large cod. Freshly caught. But not cleaned. Its belly had been slit haphazardly. Entrails spilled out. A wet, knotted rope of dark organs. The whole thing glistened. Slick with slime and drying blood.
He didn't throw it. Just dropped it. A short, heavy thud on the deck three feet from her.
The smell hit instantly. Rich. Cloying. Unbearable. Raw gore and sea rot. It choked the back of her throat.
Lyralei's body betrayed her. Her stomach lurched. A sickening wave. She pressed her lips together. Swallowed hard. Fighting the surge of bile. Her nose wrinkled. Pure animal rejection.
She didn't touch the fish. Didn't scream. Kept the sharpening stone moving. The small, steady whir of metal on rock. She looked at the fish. At the dull, milky eye. The exposed purple mess. Fought the desire to recoil.
The smell was a physical enemy. It coated the air. Stuck to her clothes. The roof of her mouth.
Blackwater watched. Not looking for a visible flinch. Looking for the deep, primitive revulsion she couldn't control. Testing how quickly he could compromise her senses. Degrade her focus.
Lyralei's jaw trembled. Almost imperceptibly. The effort of holding steady. Her dagger hand slowed. The rhythm broke.
He waited five more seconds. Letting the smell saturate the tight passage. Then he bent. Picked up the fish by its tail. Carried it, dripping, toward the rail.
He paused as he passed her. "Your eyes went dull. The sharpening stopped. You're vulnerable when your senses are overwhelmed."
He'd found the crack. Not fear. Not proximity. Disgust. The siren could handle storms. But not the vile, rotting earthiness of death.
Lyralei leaned back against the wall. Dropped her dagger to the stone. She didn't care about the noise. She took three long, slow breaths. Trying to clear the smell from her lungs.
She felt weak. Like the rot had drained her strength.
The curse bond hummed. Blackwater was satisfied. Another weakness cataloged. Another tool for his arsenal.
**to be continued**
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