Chapter 289
The stars wheel overhead, slow and silent, barely visible through the dense water at this depth. I sit on the observation deck of the warship, wrapped in one of the thick, scratchy blankets Ty scavenged from the Flounder's stores. It smells like engine oil and salt, but it’s warm, and right now that’s enough.
The rest of the crew is still celebrating—or maybe trying to sleep off too much whiskey and adrenaline—but Wake isn’t with them. I catch sight of him leaning against the far bulkhead, arms crossed, the tense line of his shoulders outlined by the dim blue glow of the ship's systems.
I know that posture.
That’s not the posture of a man savoring a victory.
That’s the posture of a man drowning in his own head.
I push off the bench, the blanket slipping from my shoulders, and pad barefoot across the cold metal floor toward him. My legs are shaky, my body still drained, but I don’t care. I care about him.
Wake doesn’t look up as I approach. His jaw’s clenched tight, his eyes locked on the dark ocean beyond the window.
“You’re brooding,” I say lightly, nudging his side with my hip.
He huffs a small breath—part laugh, part sigh—and finally glances at me. The blue light paints his features sharp and soft all at once, makes the tired lines around his eyes more visible.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.
I shrug. “You’re supposed to be celebrating.”
He shakes his head once, a slow, exhausted motion. “Not in the mood.”
I lean against the bulkhead beside him, close enough that our arms brush. We stand there for a minute, just breathing, the hum of the ship filling the silence between us.
Then, finally, Wake speaks.
“I don’t know if I can do it, Phoebe.”
His voice is low, rough, torn from somewhere deep.
I turn toward him. “Do what?”
He drags a hand through his hair, messy and salt-streaked. “Go home. Face them. Be...whatever it is they expect me to be.”
I blink at him, thrown. “Wake, you’re their Heir. You’ve already done everything—”
“Have I?” His voice sharpens. He pushes off the wall, starts pacing a few steps like he can outrun the doubt clawing at him. “I spent most of my life running. Hiding. Fighting when it suited me, sure. But I wasn’t there. I wasn’t part of it. I didn’t grow up learning court politics. I didn’t build alliances. I didn’t...” He stops, facing the window again. “I didn’t protect Shoal.”
The last words are a broken whisper.
I step toward him carefully, every instinct in me screaming to reach out, to pull him close, but I wait. Let him say it.
“He was my brother,” Wake says, staring out into the dark. “And I lost him. Or maybe he was lost before I ever had a chance to save him. But I should have tried harder. I should have seen what he was becoming.”
The silence stretches, heavy and raw.
When he finally looks at me, his eyes are naked with guilt. “How do I go back to our people, to my parents, and tell them I failed?”
I move then, without hesitation.
I press my palms against his chest, feel the steady, frantic beat of his heart under my hands. “Wake.”
He shudders under my touch but doesn’t pull away.
“You didn’t fail,” I say, voice fierce. “You survived. You fought. You protected. Not just your people—everyone.”
He opens his mouth, probably to argue, but I don’t let him.
“You think being Heir means being perfect? Untouchable? Some shining statue on a pedestal?” I shake my head, tightening my grip on his shirt. “That’s not what they need. That’s not what we need.”
His throat bobs with a hard swallow.
“They need someone who knows what it’s like to lose,” I say, softer now. “Someone who knows what it costs to fight back. Someone who doesn’t see the world in neat little boxes. Someone who can build something better because he knows exactly how easily it can all fall apart.”
I tilt my chin up so he has to meet my gaze.
“They need you.”
Wake stares at me like he’s trying to memorize every word.
I reach up, cradling his face in my hands. His stubble scrapes my palms, grounding and real and his.
“Shoal made his choices,” I whisper. “You didn’t turn him into what he is. And you’re not responsible for fixing him, either. You’re responsible for being the man you are now. And that man... Wake, Dagon would be lucky to have you as his Heir.”
He closes his eyes, breathing raggedly.
I press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there, feeling the tension bleed out of him bit by bit.
“You’re the best of them,” I murmur against his skin. “And they’re going to see that.”
He leans into me like he’s finally letting himself believe it might be true.
When he pulls back, there’s something different in his eyes. Not less pain. Not less anger. But something stronger underneath.
Resolve.
“Phoebe,” he says, voice rough.
“Yeah?”
He grabs my hands, presses them over his heart.
“I don’t care what happens when we get there,” he says. “I don’t care what they say, what they expect. I’m not doing this for them.”
I smile, small and fierce. “Good.”
“I’m doing it for us. For the future I plan to build with you.”
I blink hard against the sudden burn behind my eyes.
“Even better,” I say, and it comes out a little wobbly.
He leans down and kisses me—slow and deep, like a vow.
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