Filed To Story: The Saltwater Curse Book PDF Free
I shake my head and paddle back to shore. We need some kind of tank to store all the water to limit further contamination. The drums are okay for now, but I’d feel better if I had a backlog in case of a rainy day.
Well, in case it stops raining.
I jog back toward the shed with my board. Vasz runs alongside me, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, yipping, thinking we’re on some kind of mission.
One of our newly acquired chickens screeches when it sees us and dashes back to the coop Ordus made.
“Don’t,” I warn Vasz.
He doesn’t listen, snapping at the poor animal. I swear it loses a feather.
Prickles skate over my skin, and I come to a halt, leaning against a nearby tree to catch my breath. Bile lurches up my stomach, and I slap my hand over my mouth, willing my body to solve itself.
I thought rest would make whatever is wrong with me go away, but it’s shown no sign of disappearing. Vertigo—or whatever the fuck I have—is a bitch. Pushing off the tree, I herd the chickens back into their cage. Then I check the containers along the way to the shed to store my board, seeing if the rain catchers need taping down or if the funnels and filters for the drums need fixing.
Ordus usually checks them—and the swing, hammock, and chair—every couple of days to make sure they’re all in perfect shape. I still like to do a once-over as well. Not that I don’t trust him, but sometimes, he’s modified it or improved it in a way I never thought of.
My footsteps slow as I approach Ordus. The threads of blue in his skin are more prominent next to the plastic, cyan drum.
I chew the inside of my cheek, watching the tendons in his back strain and feather as he tightens a bolt. Every inch of him is pure, hard muscle, each one prominent and bulging from years of honing them to lethal perfection.
Ordus glances back at me, eyes dropping to my bare legs for half a heated second before averting his attention back to the funnel.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Storm’s rolling in.”
He grunts.
Ordus never really talks anymore. At most, I’ll get a handful of short, clipped sentences.
Last week, I snapped at him because I spiraled over the fact that he only wants me at a shallow, physical level, so I told him he’s welcome to drop my ass back off on the mainland whenever he wants, and his mature response was to bare his canines at me and stalk off.
“How are your teeth?”
“Fine.” I bite back a smile. It’s one of three questions he only ever asks me—I think it might be his attempt at an inside joke.
He nods, and the would-be smile wipes off my face. Ordus may hate me, but his tentacle seeks me out the moment it notices me.
“What are you doing?” I probe, saying a mental hello to the appendage curling happily around my leg.
Something that feels unnervingly akin to butterflies erupts in my stomach when I spot my scrunchie still around his wrist. I haven’t seen him without it. Ordus kept his braid for four days after and only reluctantly took it out when there was more hair out of the braid than in it.
The same thing happened the other three times I offered to braid his hair.
“Checking on it.”
My shoulders slump. At the start, the silence was nice. I could seethe from afar, loathe him for putting me in a position where I had two options: go with him or pull the trigger, and I couldn’t do the latter. It was easier for me to pretend he’s the villain and I’m the victim, perfectly innocent to fault.
But the silence has grown claws that pierce soft tissue. Every drop of blood beading onto the surface is a reminder I’m complicit in all this.
My husband was a bad man. That alone made his hatred toward me understandable. To an extent. Ordus’ disinterest in me…it’s grating on my nerves. The little voice in my head screams it’s my own fault. My own supposed Goddess-sent soulmate doesn’t like me because all my splintered pieces have turned me ugly. I know that’s not the real reason why, though.
At the end of the day, Ordus has been the perfect jailer. He gives me more space than I’m finding I want. He’s doing everything he can to keep me fed and happy. He’s kept me safe like he promised, turned his barren island into my own slice of paradise.
And my perfect jailer is wishing he ended up with someone other than me.
I shift my weight. “I’ve checked the containers between here and the beach.”
Ordus grunts.
“Should I check the one near the eastern cliffs?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, what about the northwest drum?”
Another shake.
I fist my hands. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
I take a deep breath, looking around for ideas on what to say. “Is there anything you need me to bring inside?” Sometimes he has pastes or seaweeds drying out.
“I’ve done it.” I wouldn’t say his tone is dismissive, but it’s definitely not suggesting he wants to keep talking.
I wipe my clammy hands on my soaked shirt. “I’ll, uh, make dinner so I don’t need to leave the cave once the storm hits.”
“It is already made.”
“Oh.” We take turns cooking. He likes to watch and learn, but he also likes surprising me. Or, at least, I think he likes it. Ordus usually hands the plate to me, face devoid of emotion, and grunts when I say thanks.
Once we’ve cleaned up after dinner, he leaves me to my own devices and only seeks me out when it’s time for bed, when he wordlessly pulls me into his arms, and it becomes a race to see who falls asleep first—usually Vasz. He might be a little thing, but he can shake the walls with his snoring.
I clear my throat. “I’ll just…have a bath, then.”
“No.”
I frown. “Why not?” He’s usually very probathing, because I’m a lot happier when I can’t feel grime and saltwater sticking to my skin.
He finally—
finally
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