Page 48 of Broken Star

I snap to attention as well, my dagger out, my heart racing. My magic coils beneath my skin, ready to strike if any ghostly monsters are waiting to attack.

But there are no attacks. Instead, the boat starts to move, gliding into the endless night. And despite the translucent sails overhead and the fog drifting across the deck, the wood beneath my boots feels strangely solid.

Eventually, Riven lowers his sword.

“Perfect place for a romantic getaway,” he says dryly, and frost crystallizes along his blade, forming surprisingly elegant patterns.

I roll my eyes, tightening my grip on my dagger. “Don’t start.”

He shifts his focus to me, and I can almost imagine concern in his eyes. Like he’s checking if I’m steady. But then the moment breaks, and he’s back to the icy prince I know anddon’tlove—all detached chill and sharp edges.

He gestures toward the door across the way with the tip of his sword. “Let’s check below deck.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Anorder.

I scowl as he strides forward, leaving me to keep up.

The door creaks open with unsettling ease.

The room down the steps is cramped and claustrophobic. The furniture has an eerie, otherworldly glow, shifting between real and spectral, like it can’t decide which plane it belongs to. Chairs shaped from polished driftwood sit around a narrow table in the center, and lanterns with orbs of ghostly light rest on top of it. And?—

A bed.

My stomach twists.

It’s not a small bed. Not a cot. Not some cursed, haunted hammock. It’s a full-sized bed, pushed against the far wall, the sheets neatly tucked, the mattress wide enough for two.

No. Absolutely not.

Riven moves past me, tossing his sword onto the table with zero concern for spectral curses or immediate death.

“Well,” he says, pulling his pack off and setting it down on a table. “At least there are no stowaway poltergeists. Yet.”

“You sound almost disappointed.” I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “But it’s too bad. It could have been fun watching you get thrown overboard by an angry ghost.”

He smirks. Slowly.

“I tend to make people angry, don’t I?” he says, and I glare at him, hating how much he enjoys taunting me.

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter as he starts rummaging inside the pack.

Every glance at his face leaves me unsettled, like I’m on the verge of recalling something huge—only to have it slip away the moment I reach for it.

“Everything’s still here,” he says, running a hand over his soaked shirt, squeezing out the excess water in slow, deliberate motions.

I can’t help but track the shift of muscle beneath wet fabric and the way the water glides over his skin, catching on his collarbone.

No.

I tear my eyes away, gripping the back of a chair like it might anchor me. Like it might stop my body from betraying me again.

He just watches me, his smirk creeping in like he can hear the thoughts I’m trying to shove into silence.

“You have two choices right now,” he says, reaching for the hem of his shirt and starting to lift it up. “Use your magic to dry me off, or enjoy my company sans clothing.”

Every muscle in my body tenses as my eyes travel along his body, to the bed behind him, and finally, to the trunk-like wardrobe on the side.

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