Page 97 of The Sea Witch's Son

No, it’s because you want to steal another piece of me.

He clears his throat, “My tattoo is a reminder. That passion is a man’s greatest downfall.”

I blink, slowly rolling over to face him, “Do you really believe that?”

“I would not have gotten it permanently stamped on my body if I didn’t.”

I bite my lip, picturing the scene on his forearm. It’s beautiful and violent, but there is a sense of sadness. A smidgen of grief hidden beneath the untouchable layers.

“So, your father was a sailor?”

“I’m afraid you’ve run out of questions, little saint.” Perfect teeth flash in the dark, “It’s time you held up your end of the bargain.”

My mouth opens and closes.

“You tricked me.”

“I offered two questions, and you asked two questions.” He tilts his head, “A deal is a deal. Your turn.”

Panic starts to well up inside me.

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, little saint. Time to sing.”

He’s looking at me expectantly, and all I can feel is the lock clamped tight around my throat. The need to remain silent and the desire to sing clash against one another, forcing the harmony to clump and tangle together.

“I can’t.”

He sighs heavily, “You’re being difficult again.”

“No.” My throat starts to close, “You don’t understand.”

“Sing for me.”

He leaves no room for argument.

Desperation wells up as I suck in a gust of air. My lungs expand in a painfully familiar way, the music box inside waiting for a turn.

The desire is there, but not the sound. I can feel the hollowness as I open my mouth, trying to coax the lid to release a song.

Nothing. Not a sound.

Marlin watches me quietly, watching me suffocate and die for the second time tonight.

“I can’t sing.” The words are barely a whisper, “Not without her.”

The silence is almost as suffocating as his gaze. It enfolds the room, covering every surface with a tension that has me wanting to scream.

He’s looking at me as if he can hear the words I can’t say.

As if he can feel the pain I can’t express.

“Don’t sing for your mother.” He speaks slowly, drawing out each and every word, “Don’t sing for Erik. Don’t even do it for yourself.”

Violet eyes find mine in the darkness.

“Do it for me.”

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