FICTION: Wanderer's Retreat (Part 2)

It seems I'm not the only one with a taste for pirate-flavoured fiction with a twist of sexy.

I wrote the first part of this story for the Art Prompt Writing Contest hosted by @gmuxx, and several people asked for part two, so here goes!

You can read Part 1 of Wanderer’s Retreat here.

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Wanderer’s Retreat (Part 2)

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As the sky opened up and rain began to batter the roof, my fatigue came back full-force. Sexy man would have to wait. I could've dropped to the floor, but as I looked down I realized I’d muddied it with my boots.

Taking them off took too entirely too much effort. The fact that I’d never shared this hideout with anyone else nagged at me, but he'd paid the silver, and he didn’t seem to be a threat.

Not that I’d be able to trust him. Or sleep the way I wanted to, for that matter. I’d have to keep one ear open.

Nomad watched me with his dark eyes as I crossed to my bed in the corner of the one-room jungle hut. A bed he’d been sleeping in, by the looks of the rumpled blanket.

“Look,” I said, trying not to be annoyed that I had to dig beneath his clothes to find clean ones of my own, “I’ve been sailing solo for three days. I’d like to sleep for about as long.”

“I understand,” he said. He scooped his clothes out of my way and stood awkwardly, looking for another place to put them. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offered.

We both looked dubiously at the rough plank floor, topped with a small table and one chair. Not a comfortable sleep by anyone’s stretch of the imagination.

Something was missing. My mind registered this as the rain drummed down. “The roof isn’t leaking,” I said, looking for the bucket that belonged in the center of the floor.

“I fixed it.” He didn’t say it with pride, but with a soft voice. Was that humility?

“Huh.” I would’ve been more impressed if I wasn’t so damn tired. I grabbed a change of clothes, tossed a careless, “Turn around,” over my shoulder at him, and didn’t bother checking to see if he’d done it.

Wiggling out of my shirt and pants, my skin tingled in a dull way, aware of his presence. Dirty clothes on the floor, thin sleeping things on, I fell into bed, making sure to stash the silver and my knife beneath the pillow.

My blankets smelled of him: coconut, ash, and man taking care of his needs alone. Nothing I hadn’t encountered on countless ships, but in my own bed?

I eyed him through half-lidded eyes. He’d stacked his clothes on a shelf in the corner and sat down in the chair, facing me. Contemplating me, by the looks of it.

“Did you build this place yourself?” he asked.

“Yes.” I wrapped my hand around the knife, comforted by the weapon. Closing my eyes for a long minute, I completely failed to go to sleep.

After another minute, I squinted at him. “Your ship in the bay, it’s easily seen. Might be pirates about. Or worse, the Pod.” Bloody pirate police.

“That's not my ship in the bay.”

The way he said it made me sit up. “That’s not your ship?” I felt sick, I was so tired. Who else was on this island?

“Not mine,” he repeated, shaking his head once, slow. “I deserted a less-than virtuous crew with nothing but a dinghy. Rowed five days before I found this place. Hid the boat in the bushes.”

“Smart,” I said, not sure if it was. “So there’s someone else here. And you’ve made a trail right to my door.” I fell over, unable to be vertical any longer.

“Um… I did my best to keep the trail hidden from the beach.”

I groaned. “Tell me you have a weapon and know how to use it.”

“I have a weapon,” he said in a low voice that held zero doubt. “I know how to use it.”

His tone ran through my blood. My grip tightened on the knife as I studied his face, mostly in shadow, brooding in the dim glow given off by the woodstove.

I forced myself to relax my hand. “Keep watch, will ya?”

“ I will.” He flicked his gaze to mine, and I realized, whatever else this man was, he was also deadly.

Maybe he saw the reflection of my thoughts. His face softened. “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you if there’s reason. Chances of anyone being out in this storm are slim.”

Truth. I closed my eyes, breathed a heavy sigh, and gave in to the fatigue that dragged at my bones. In the black of my mind, flickers of shadow and light formed in the shape of Nomad’s face, his eyes burning with a dark purpose.

Original writing by Katrina Ariel

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Thanks for reading!

If you’re liking Wanderer's Retreat and want me to continue the story, please let me know. Encouragement is always appreciated. ;)

Peace. @katrina-ariel

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