Ocean Jewel by Cassie Mint

Six

Damian

There’s something wrong with Roxy.

Or not wrong exactly, but… off. I know this girl. I’ve known her for years—since Jake and I were teenagers and she was a tiny baby. I’ve watched her grow into a young woman and a talented artist. She’s funny and quick-witted and shy.

And now she’s nervous. Her teeth are practically chattering with extra energy; she darts glances around like a prey animal. She’s been hiding herself away from everyone on board, scribbling away in her sketchpad, a tiny frown creasing her forehead.

And she stares so intently at whatever she’s drawing, that I know it’s something significant. Something that’s making her afraid.

I just want to make sure she’s okay. That there’s nothing sinister going on. I’m not going to-to overstep.

I’m checking in on her. Taking care of her. And that sketchpad is the way to do it. So when Roxy leaves it behind when we go below deck for dinner, I’m going to hell for it, but I don’t say anything. She said she’ll show me when it’s finished, but what if she’s in danger? Or some kind of emotional turmoil?

I’m the fixer. Roxy is mine. And whatever the problem is, I’m going to fix it for her.

Dinner lasts an eternity. The whole meal I’m on edge, braced for Roxy to leap to her feet, remembering her sketchpad. But she doesn’t—she eats quietly, stealing rare glances at me, and each time her gaze falls on me, my heart slams in my chest. At one point, she takes a bite of something and hums appreciatively.

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white.

When she heads back to her cabin, bidding everyone goodnight, I can hardly believe my luck. I lunge up the stairs to the deck as soon as everyone else is distracted, striding to the spot where I found her sketching earlier.

It’s still here. The pages are bloated and crackling, puffed up by use. And the black cover is spotted with drops of sea water, a lump of charcoal abandoned at its side.

“Roxy,” I murmur, plucking up the sketchpad. “Forgive me, sweetheart.” I flip it open, scanning her drawings by the light of the moon. The deck lurches beneath me, waves battering the hull, and I shift my feet wider to balance as I flick through the pages.

Seabirds.

Parts of the ship, rendered in stark light and shadows.

Roxy’s messy cabin—I smile at the twisted bed covers.

Waves. Lots of waves.

I page through the book, frustration mounting. Surely, if this was all she’d been drawing, she’d have nothing to hide. Nothing to flush bright red and hide her sketchpad over. I flick faster and faster through the stiff pages, cursing under my breath, and I almost miss it—the drawing of me.

I’m standing by the railing. A breeze tugs at my hair, and a frown creases my forehead as I gaze out to sea. I stare down at the drawing, pulse thrumming louder and louder until it pounds in my ears.

She draws me?

I turn the page. My heart sinks.

It’s a sketch of the captain.

“Fuck,” I mutter, paging quicker again. I’m there a lot, but then so are the others. Jake most of all, then the captain, then a few of each of the crew. She’s been drawing all of us, and if she draws me the most—well, I’m always around. I’m a convenient subject.

That’s all it is,I tell myself sternly. Don’t get carried away.

It would truly be the mark of a desperate man to read into this. To pretend that some drawings seem more wistful than others.

I turn another page and freeze.

Roxy has drawn me shirtless. Bare-chested, and when did she see me like that? She’s captured every detail, down to the scar on my hip. Whenever it was, she studied me carefully. I scrub a hand down my face, willing my heartbeat to slow.

I’m staring out of the page. Eyes narrowed and fixed on the audience. Is that how she sees me? Angry and stern? I swallow hard, turning the page again.

It’s me again. Stretched out on the bed in her cabin. This time I’m smiling, but there’s a menace to it. Dark promise. I curse quietly, turning the page.

They’re all of me. From this point forward, Roxy has only drawn me. And they go a simple shirtless sketch—reasonably innocent, no different from any life study—to pictures of the two of us together.

Roxy on her knees in front of me, her small hands resting on my thighs. Roxy grinding into my lap; on hands and knees; dwarfed beneath my body. She’s drawn us in every position she could think of, and when I remember how flushed her cheeks were, how bright her eyes—

“Fuck.” I snap the sketchpad closed.

I shouldn’t have looked. That—that was wrong. I shouldn’t have seen any of this. It’s private, and what’s more, I know Roxy. I know how crushed she’d be if she knew I’d seen these.

I place the sketchpad back exactly where I found it. Dig my fists into my eyes and suck in a long, slow breath. I’ll go back below deck. I can do this. I can be around her and not let slip what I’ve seen.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter one last time, then turn to leave the deck.

Roxy stands a few feet behind me, eyes wide and face chalky white. Her gaze darts between me and the book behind me, her lower lip wobbling, and god, I want to slam my head on the deck as I watch her heart breaking.

“You promised…” she trails off, shaking her head like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe this is happening. “You said you wouldn’t look.”

“Roxy.” I reach out a hand but she’s gone, whipping around and scurrying back below deck. I sigh and scoop up the sketchpad again, tucking it under my arm. Better that Jake doesn’t see this.

I give her a few minutes. A chance to get back to her cabin before I follow. And in that time, I peer up at the stars. They wink down at me, ancient and knowing, and when I draw in each breath, the salt air burns my lungs.

I’ve hurt her. I’ve fucked up. Seeing that betrayal on her face—my chest tightens like a vice.

But even so, my traitorous cock pulses in my jeans, and those sketches flit through my brain. Our charcoal bodies, tangled up and gasping. Roxy’s secret plea to the paper.

If she still wants me, I’ll fix this for her too.

Her brother never needs to know.