Page 147 of The Sea Witch's Son

Horrible bruising lines the edge of her pussy, the dark colour making my blood boil. There are cuts down here too, from where he ripped her lining, and it does not take an intelligent man to know why she won’t meet my eyes.

There is nothing sexual about the way I caress her damaged parts. Nothing salacious about the way I press my lips to her wounds. It’s a reassurance that I do not see her any differently.

It's a promise that I could never see her differently.

“Still the same beautiful pussy.” I press another kiss to her bruises, so she knows I mean it, “Still the same stubborn little saint.”

Her eyes finally find mine, but I don’t like what I see. Vulnerability and shame swirl around the shades of blue like quicksand, drowning out the fire and resilience I’ve grown to admire.

I see it then, the piece of her that’s missing. The pride of being a woman who fights back, a woman who is smart enough not to put herself in these situations.

It is a piece I am all too familiar with, and I know what I have to do to get it back.

Reaching inside my chest, there is nothing but fragments left. Fragments that I am only too willing to hand over if it means putting my little saint back together.

A piece of her for all the shattered pieces of me.

Chapter 54

TRISTAN

12 years ago...

He wouldn’t leave me.

Hecan’tleave me.

Stumbling over the rug in my room, I go racing towards my closet.

Full-blown panic hits my system as I scramble onto the dusty ironing board and try to reach the suitcase on the top shelf. It nearly topples me over in the process, sending my pounding heart into overdrive.

There has to be a mistake.

Dad wouldn’t leave without me.

My fingers are trembling as I randomly grab clothes from the hangers around me. The ship was already at the dock when I looked out the window this morning, so Idon’t have much time.

Miscellaneous clothes get thrown into the bottom of my suitcase. There’s no rhyme or reason, everything that’s within my short reach gets tossed into the open luggage. My hands are shaking as I rearrange my bundle of clothes to make room for one crucial item.

The sailboat sits beneath my dirty laundry. I hid it there to make sure my dad wouldn’t find it before it was ready. After six weeks of construction, I finally attached the final piece last night – an anchor stolen from my favourite key chain.

Removing the ship from its hiding spot, I carefully position the wooden model between the soft fold of my clothes. The mast sticks out from a rumpled pair of shorts, but I quickly tuck it back in.

“Please don’t break.” I whisper the prayer before closing my suitcase and zipping it shut.

I don’t bother taking any of the puzzles decorating my bedroom walls. There’s no room left in my suitcase, and I don’t know how much space will be on board.

Whether dad will give me my own room or let me share his.

I go running out of my room, dragging my suitcase behind me. It bumps awkwardly against my legs, making me stumble and trip my way out of the house and onto the shore.

“Dad, wait!”

The wind steals my voice and sweeps it across the open water. The ship has already left the dock, its glistening hull slowly moving farther away.

I hit the dock hard, feeling the rough wood scrape my bare feet. My steps falter when I reach the edge, the tumultuous waves sending a thread of fear through me.

“Dad! Come back!”

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