Again, I looked to the cabin door. The anger remained, of course—ever stale—but the dread had been replaced with steely resolve. With newfound purpose. My happiness included Reid, and I would never stop fighting for him. Never stop trying. Coco followed my gaze with a small smile. Pushing me forward gently, she whispered, “Here’s to finding our happiness.”

Take Me to Church

Reid

I stooped to enter the cabin, nearly cracking my skull in the process, before straightening to inspect my sanctuary. A cluttered galley full of pots and pans to the right. A threadbare sofa straight ahead. A circular table. I crossed the cabin in two strides. A bed had been tucked behind tartan curtains at the bow of the ship. Two more strides. A second set of curtains hid another bed in the stern. The linens smelled faintly of mildew. Of salt and fish.

When my stomach gave an audible growl, I rummaged through the cabinets in search of food. It gave my hands purpose. My mind focus. Hunger had a solution. A clear, tangible solution. That pain could be cured with a loaf of hard bread, a jar of pickled vegetables. I stacked them both on the counter now. I cut the loaf with my knife. I uncorked the carrots and radishes. I searched for a plate, for a fork, without truly seeing. When I found them, I ate swiftly, determinedly, every movement efficient. Focused.

The pain in my stomach didn’t ease.

Guilt continued to churn until I shoved the plate away, disgusted with the carrots. With the boat. With myself.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

We’ll rescue you. I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.

I’d thought myself convicted. I’d never heard conviction until this day.

You are a witch, and even if you weren’t, you’ve conspired with us plenty. You’ve married a witch, slept with a witch, hidden and protected a witch—multiple times—and best yet: you’ve murdered for a witch. Four of us, to be precise. The most important of those is bleeding out on the carpet right now.

I’d never heard such vehemence. Such passion.

I hated it.

I hated her.

I hated that I didn’t hate her at all.

My thoughts spun circles as I washed my plate. The empty jar. As I replaced them in the cupboard, along with the bread. Sinking onto the couch, I stared endlessly at the cabin door. I couldn’t kill her. I couldn’t touch her in that way. In any way. When I thought of it now—thought of giving in to temptation, of trailing my lips down her ribs, or perhaps sliding my knife between them—bile rose in my throat. Maybe I could leave her instead, leave all of them, as originally planned.

The thought brought physical pain.