Page 17 of Currents of Desire

He offers no argument. Slowly, he lifts a trembling hand and rests it against my back, his fingers dragging along my spine to feel the new skin.

He isn't the keeper anymore. The illusion of his control has completely washed away.

I close my eyes, soaking in the quiet reality of my victory, and wait for his heart to beat for me again.

CHAPTER 7

Nerida

The wind, which has been hammering against the walls of this wooden box for hours, simply ceases. It does not fade; it is severed. The sudden quiet rings in my ears, heavier than the storm. The house groans, the timbers settling into the mud, creaking like the bones of a dying whale.

I open my eyes.

The room is gray, washed in the weak light of a sun smothered by clouds. The air is still thick, heavy with moisture, but the chaotic energy is gone, replaced by an eerie, stagnant stillness.

I am lying on the floor. Jack is slumped in the armchair above me, his head lolling to the side, his mouth slightly open. He looks thoroughly broken.

My body feels different. Sated. The hunger that usually gnaws at my belly is quieted by what he gave me, but there is a new heaviness to my limbs. The air in this room lacks the oxygen-rich circulation of the current. I take a breath, and it rattles slightly in my chest.

I sit up. My hair hangs in tangled, drying ropes around my shoulders. I look at Jack. He is asleep, dark shadows bruised beneath his eyes. I remember the taste of him—salt and iron. I remember the way he screamed.

I stand. My legs are steady, though the skin feels uncomfortably tight, and I walk to the window.

Outside, the world has stopped. The trees that were thrashing last night are now statues, some bent double, others snapped like twigs. The water has risen into a brown, churning soup that laps at the edges of the veranda.

But above…

I look up. The sky is a circle of impossible blue. A perfect cylinder of clarity carved through the gray tumult. The eye. We are in the belly of the storm, and it is watching us.

Behind me, a shift of fabric. A sharp intake of breath.

I turn.

Jack is awake. He looks at my nakedness, at the pale flesh of my stomach, and his face floods with color. I find his shame fascinating. Last night, he was a willing participant. This morning, he is a penitent.

“Nerida,” he croaks. His voice is wrecked, stripped raw by the sounds he made in the dark.

“The wind has stopped,” I say. My voice is lower, raspier.

He rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing at his eyes as if trying to erase the memory of the last few hours. “It’s the eye,” he mutters. “It won’t last long. Maybe an hour. Maybe less.” He stands up, his movements stiff. He winces as he shifts his hips, and a flicker of satisfaction curls in my gut.

I did that.

I marked him.

He avoids looking directly at me now. He moves to a pile of laundry on a side table, rummaging through it with frantic, clumsy hands. He pulls out a bundle of gray cotton and tosses it toward me.

“Here,” he says, staring studiously at the floorboards. “Put this on.”

I catch the garment. It is soft, worn thin by time. I hold it up. A T-shirt.

“Why?” I ask. “I do not require insulation.”

“It’s not for insulation,” he snaps, then softens. “It’s… just put it on. Please.”

I pull the shirt over my head, inhaling the intense smell of him on the fabric. It hangs loosely on my frame, the hem hitting my mid-thigh, dry and scratchy against my sensitive skin. A constant, irritating friction.

“Better?” I ask, stepping closer.