Page 24 of Whatever Wakes
The island itself has fallen into an uneasy rhythm around me. The howling wind and crashing waves have become a backdrop to the quiet, the constant pull of survival shifting into something that almost feels bearable. But the stillness is deceptive, like the lull before a storm. And no matter how much I try to ignore it, I can’t shake the feeling that something is waiting just beyond the horizon, unseen but inevitable.
The cold is more miserable than it is inland, like the wind has teeth. It rushes in from the vast, open ocean, carrying the briny scent of salt and seaweed, the kind of crispness that stings my nose and makes my eyes water. The wooden planks beneath my feet creak under my steps, weathered and gray from years of storms and relentless tides. The pier stretches out into the restless water, where waves churn against the pylons, their steady rhythm broken only by the occasional slap of something larger moving beneath the surface.
I shouldn’t be out here for multiple reasons, the least of which being that piers are most definitely liminal spaces—caught between land and sea, between safety and the unknown.
My grandmother always warned me about places like this, though she meant back home, in the woods, where the in-between spaces belonged to things that shouldn’t be named. Doorways that didn’t lead where they should. Sets of stairs that led to nowhere.
But standing here, with the black water beneath me and the wind clawing at my coat, I can’t shake the feeling that the same rules apply. That if I walk to the end of this pier and look too long into the water, something might look back.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, colder than the wind, but I don’t turn around.
Because the thing is, I kind of like tempting fate.
Fate being Ezra.
He doesn’t want me out here, which makes standing at the edge of this rotting pier feel that much better.
Beyond the pier, the island feels abandoned, an eerie stillness settling over the rocky cliffs and skeletal remains of trees stripped bare by the elements. The distant lighthouse stands like a silent guardian, its white facade streaked with years of salt and rain, its lantern dark. Clouds hang low over the horizon, heavy and bruised, swallowing what little light remains. The storm that’s been threatening all day lingers just beyond reach, waiting.
Every breath is pained, the cold sinking deep, shoving into my lungs like it's trying to root itself there. A harsh reminder that I didn’t choose this place. I didn’t choose any of this.
Some fucking island getaway.
I keep my head down, eyes locked on the uneven boards beneath my boots, willing myself to focus on each step, on the solid feel of wood underfoot. Ignoring the occasional creak that rises beneath me, soft, drawn-out sounds that almost resemble whispers. Too low to make out, but enough to keep my nerves on edge. I tell myself it’s just the wind, just old boards and shifting weight. But it doesn’t stop the way my shoulders stiffen, the way my skin prickles like something unseen is watching.
Ezra warned me about the pier, said it wasn’t stable, said I shouldn’t trust it. But as I glance toward the weathered wood stretching ahead, I don’t see anything wrong with it.
It holds beneath my steps, doesn’t groan in protest (much), doesn’t give way. Still, I know him well enough to understand that his warning wasn’t just about rotting planks.
I smirk at his overprotectiveness despite myself, but even that feels hollow. Like I’m trying to hold onto something light in a place that’s determined to swallow it whole.
Every gesture, every word of reassurance—it all comes wrapped in a shadow of control. He always has to be in control. The way he never let me walk home alone, no matter how many times I argued. How he pulled strings, manipulated circumstances, until I ended up as his TA, tethered to him whether I wanted it or not. How he’d frame it all as concern, like he was just looking out for me. But it was never really about me, was it?
Like the time I got that offer for a research position with another professor. Before I even had a chance to think about it, Ezra had already talked to them. Smoothed things over. Arranged it so I’d be “better off” staying with him. I didn’t even notice he’d interfered until weeks later, when I overheard him brushing it off like it was nothing. Like he’d done me a favor.
Or the way he always had to be the one driving. Not just in the metaphorical sense, but literally. If he were there, I wasn’t allowed behind the wheel. “You’re tired,” he’d say, plucking the keys from my fingers before I could argue. “I don’t mind.” And maybe Iwastired. Maybe itwaseasier to just let him do things his way. But that was never the point. It was never about convenience or kindness. It was about control.
Even in bed, he was the same. Always guiding. Always setting the pace. Always making sure I was exactly where he wanted me. And I let him. Hell, maybe at first, I even liked it—the certainty, the way he made me feel like I belonged to him, like he knew what I needed before I even had to ask. Like I didn’t have to think.
And the worst part? Even now, when I should know better—when Idoknow better—my body still betrays me. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he could pull pleasure from me like it was his right… It lingers, crawling under my skin, setting up camp in places I don’t want to acknowledge. It pisses me off how easily my body remembers, how a single thought can make heat twist low in my stomach.
Control wrapped up in care is still control. And I see that now.
Being stuck here with him, no space, no buffer, no way to pretend I don’t notice every little thing—it’s already proving to be damn near impossible. And no matter how pissed I am at him for all of this, I don’t know how long I can keep pretending it doesn’t get to me.
The visceral attraction I have to him is almost painful, especially when he has spent every second of the last forty-eight hours catering to my every whim, waiting on me hand and foot like he’s trying to keep me as comfortable as possible.
Like he’s trying to make up for this shit show—and everything else.
And why does he have to be so fucking attractive? If I have to watch his muscles flex the way they do while he’s carrying in firewood again, even one more time…
I groan, pressing my palms against my face like that might somehow help. It doesn’t.
He says it’s all for my protection, but doesn’t care to fully elaborate. Keeps things just vague enough to drive me insane. Just commanding enough to remind me exactly how he operates.
I don’t trust him. But damn he looks good ruining my life.
I glance up at the lighthouse in the distance, its towering silhouette cutting through the gray sky. He’s still up there, doing whatever it is he does when he disappears for hours at a time.
