Chapter 4, Sarah
The first thing that hit me when I set foot on the deck was the stench: salt, rot, something sour and wet clinging to the wood. The planks under my boots felt slick and looked darkened like old bruises. A restless clutter of sounds filled the air, the kind that might be unremarkable on their own but together left me disoriented, reminding me I’d stepped somewhere I don’t belong.
A staggered, grating clatter rolled across the deck, like half a dozen heavy chairs dragging over a stone floor in no particular rhythm. Sailors were hunched over, grinding stone blocks across the boards in slow, punishing strokes. Each rasp came in short, uneven bursts, sending faint shudders through the deck and up through the soles of my boots, as if the ship itself was growling beneath me.
Buckets of seawater sloshed against the rails, and the air felt thick and heavy. Above, seabirds wheeled and cried, fighting each other in lazy spirals. One dipped too low, and a sailor with a towel snapped it through the air, chasing them off with a string of curses.
"Go on, get!" they shouted, whipping again as another gull tried to land.
A steady voice answered from somewhere among the workers, another sailor, taller, standing watch over the grim cleaning.
"Stone it and swab it as many times as it takes," they said. "Long as those damn birds can still smell blood, they'll keep coming. Deck’s got enough shit on it already."
I followed their gaze and realized they meant it. The wood was marked, scarred in a way no amount of scrubbing seemed able to fix. Faint dark stains clung stubbornly to the seams, seeping deep into the grain. A hunk of some dead creature, a thick, pale coil studded with cruel suckers, lay decaying against a broken rail, swarmed by flies.
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A few sailors noticed her first, tools lowering mid-motion, voices cutting off mid-sentence. Then it spread. One by one, hands stilled, footsteps paused, conversations trailed off until the entire deck fell eerily quiet. Even the birds circling overhead seemed to take the hint, their cries fading into silence as if under her command.
I don’t remember much of the meeting. I must have stood there through all of it, but all I could focus on was Roberts’ hand around my wrist. Her grip wasn’t bruising, but it was steady and unrelenting. I kept waiting for her to let go, for her to say something, but she didn’t. She just held me there like I was already hers.
Then it was over. Just like that, she let go and walked away. No parting words. No glance back or any indication that I should follow. I don’t know what I was expecting. A conversation, maybe. A demand, a threat, something to make it clear what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. But there was nothing. She just left me here. Fine.
Now, I make my way toward the railing, moving stiffly, aware of every unfamiliar face, every unspoken judgment. More than once, I end up in someone’s way. The sailors do their best to avoid colliding with me, but there’s no mistaking the side-eyes and the slight hesitations.
I grip the railing and exhale, staring out at the sea that seems to stretch forever in every direction. They don’t want to talk to me. They don’t even want to look at me. And suddenly, I know why.
Roberts didn’t just keep a hand on me to keep me still. She wasn’t just keeping me in line. She was sending a message. I’m not a guest. I’m not a prisoner. I’m… hers.
The realization coils tight in my gut. She was controlling the way they see me without saying a damn word. And I stood there, resisting, but never pulling away. Held. Dominated. And even now that she’s gone, I still feel it. That quiet, insidious pressure. Controlled. Owned.
It was the sheer number of unfamiliar faces, the overwhelming realization that I’ve never been to sea, never stepped foot on a ship, never stood among pirates. That’s why I let it happen. That’s why I didn’t pull away. It was the pragmatic thing to do. Stay close to the devil I know.
But... did I have to stand that close?
