The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bash

Fear.

Bash believed he’d experienced it before. The night his father was murdered. The day he assumed the throne. The first time the island shook as the sea’s children fought their prison.

But he realized that, all those times, he’d been consumed by anger and guilt.

Not fear.

Not the true kind of terror that he suffered watching Margrete tumble over the side of his ship, the tumultuous waters yanking her to certain death.

The men heaved and, thanks to a tilting swell, the cannon dislodged and went careening toward the opposite end of the ship until it crashed into the railing. Bash cradled his arm, the pain blinding. A jagged gash opened his flesh from elbow to shoulder, but the wound was already knitting itself back together, thanks to his Azantian blood. It would scar, but he would survive.

He struggled to his feet. Gius, who’d taken the brunt of the blow, screamed at him. “Go! Help her!”

Bash needn’t be told twice.

He raced across the deck, the image of her falling into the storm still knife-sharp in his mind as he dove into the thunderous waves. He sliced through the water as the sea raged around him. The muffled screams of his bewildered crew reached him as he fought harder against the current. He knew they counted on him to save them all. If he died, then—

No. Dying wasn’t an option.

And neither was losing Margrete.

The sea trembled as he pushed down, and a sense of foreboding filled his chest. It was almost as if there was something else down here with him, and Bash couldn’t shake the sensation of foreign, yet familiar, power that surged through the waves.

Bubbles of air escaped through his lips, but he didn’t lose his rhythm, not even as a vicious bolt of lightning struck the skies overhead. The blaze of light sank below the waters, illuminating a dark form and a flash of silver shining twenty or so feet away.

It had to be her.

He couldn’t fathom otherwise.

With renewed strength, Bash propelled himself deeper to where he’d seen the glimmer of metallic light. There wasn’t time to think about how far they’d drifted from the ship, or what they would do should the Phaedra go down. Bash had to get to her first, and whatever happened after would have to wait—if they even made it out of this alive.

The deeper he swam and the longer he held his breath, the more grateful he felt that he wasn’t human. His body was made for this. His sight crafted to see through the enveloping gloom of the depths.

Finally, Bash drew near. He reached into the dim and grabbed hold of Margrete’s hand, the one attached to the silver that had guided him—her ring. The one she’d taken to wearing after her trip to the market.

Bash yanked her lifeless body to his chest and wound his arm around her waist, the pressure encircling his heart contracting. He hated how helpless he felt. Her eyes were shut, and he wasn’t sure she was alive, or if she’d taken a final breath of water into her lungs and surrendered.

She better not have.

Margrete’s head bobbed as he kicked, her long chocolate curls floating around her wan face like a shadowy halo.

There wasn’t much time left. Bash’s lungs ached for air.

When they finally broke the surface, Bash gasped, filling his burning lungs. He whipped his head around, searching for his vessel, his crew. For a chance at survival.

He was terrified to look at Margrete, but he forced himself. She was so pale, so lifeless, her lips tinged blue.

Fuck. He tilted her head, praying to and cursing the gods all at once.

A giant wave crested and then fell, revealing the Phaedra no more than fifty yards away.

He shouted, waving his free arm, hoping his men were keeping their eyes peeled for their king.

Tugging Margrete with him, his grip firm around her small waist, he set off in the direction of salvation. Only when he heard his men’s returning shouts did he feel the sudden weight of his exhaustion and the pain of his still-healing injury.

He held on as the ship veered toward them, the waves growing less frenzied and wild. A rope ladder was tossed over the deck, and the joyous cries of his crew wafted to his ears. Bash stole one more look at Margrete’s still face. He knew, even then, with her limp body pressed against his chest, that he would have dove into the storm again and again if it meant seeing her face one more time.

The key to his people’s safety or not, Bash suddenly couldn’t fathom the idea of a world without her in it. Where she wasn’t rolling her eyes at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, or daintily wrinkling her nose when she was frustrated with him, which, apparently, was quite often.

She made him feel something other than anger for the first time in over a decade.

And gods be damned, he refused to let her get rid of him this easily.