Novari opened her eyes to nothing but cat fur. When she'd gained enough consciousness to realize it was the ship's cat, Whale, she pushed him away far enough to sit up a little. He stirred a little, annoyed.

She was in the captain's quarters, with bright sunlight streaming in from the window above her head and the black comforter spilling over the sides of the mattress. She sat up some more.

It didn't feel like the same place she'd gone snooping in just a few days ago, examining his ring and reading through his journals. This time, it felt like she'd woken up in some coveted place she wasn't supposed to see, all forbidden luxury and power.

You're the new champion.

Now that was a name Novari could live with having. Champion. At this point, all she had to do was hold on with dear life to that title. She didn't care if Bardarian had used her to make some point against his first mate, because she was the new champion.

At the sound of a knock on the door, Whale startled, eyes wide as Miller came through.

"Good morning," the doctor said warily, blonde curls catching sunlight. She knelt next to the bed, reaching for Novari's arm. "I'm just going to have to—" She cut off, running her hands over the broken arm. "What?"

"What?" Novari asked. She already knew Miller didn't like her, but she wasn't sure what she'd done this time.

"That's...that's impossible." Miller continued to massage at her arm, causing more pain than Novari cared to admit. "Captain!" the doctor called. "Come here!"

Novari watched the door for him. His hand curled around the frame first, then he leaned through, eyes on Miller. "What?"

"Come look at this," Miller said, still in disbelief.

Bardarian sighed as he pushed off the doorway. He took a knee next to the doctor and looked at Novari's arm. "That's impossible," he said.

"What is?" Novari asked. She'd been wrapped over her chest, and her stomach was a mess of nasty bruises, but nothing was new there; internal bleeding always went away on its own.

"Your arm," Bardarian clarified, watching Miller run her fingers over the smooth skin in amazement.

Novari looked down. The bone was where it should be, the bruises starting to clear up. "What?"

"It's healed!" Miller exclaimed. "The break is fused already!"

Novari glanced up at the doctor. "It usually does that," she said.

Bardarian rested his forearm on the duvet, right over Novari's thigh. "Bones in general don't usually do that," he noted.

"Bones never do that," Miller corrected, clearly liking Novari a lot more now. "You're a miracle; I thought you'd never use this arm properly ever again."

They both looked to her for explanation, but Novari didn't realize this was that big of a deal. "Sirens heal quickly," she said.

"But—I mean, the entire bone is refused!" Miller said. "It's like some sort of mixed-raced phenomena. You're genetically perfect."

"Thank you," Novari said slowly, but she was watching Bardarian as he ran his fingers over her arm, lighter than when Miller did it. "Adrian?" she asked.

"Hiding," he replied. "Won't let anyone see him, not even Miller. He'll be dead in a few days if he keeps this up."

"He's probably dead now," Miller said, getting to her feet. "That was a severe neck injury. I'm not sure he'd survive even if he was letting me treat him."

Novari didn't wonder why, just kept her eyes on Bardarian as he frowned, placing pressure near her elbow.

"I'm going to see if he'll let me in," Miller announced. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on you." She got her bag and closed the door behind her.

Bardarian held her shoulder with one arm and moved it around. He slid a finger down her bicep, still dazzled by her healing process, still kneeling on the ground below her.

"He's awful to fight," Novari said. "No finesse."

"I see that," the Captain replied, pushing harder on her shoulder.

"No," Novari said quickly. "There was something wrong with the way he fought. Like he was sure he'd win—no matter what I did."

"He's confident."

"No," Novari said again, sitting up. The blanket fell to her hips, but she didn't mind; he was far too focused on her arm, anyway. "There was something wrong with him," she said. "He wasn't scared, not at all. Not of pain and not of death."

She'd leaned forward to get his attention, but now when he looked up, she had to pull back a fraction to stop them from touching.

He searched her face, brows drawn. "I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

Novari felt the indistinct pull to lean a little closer, to rest her head on the soft collar of his coat and close her eyes. She stayed very still and said, "I'm saying there is something wrong with Everson. Something..." She paused, willing him to give her a little more space so she could think clearer. "Eerie," she decided.

His eyes flickered to the window above her shoulders, then back to her face. His forearm was still resting over her thigh, but she wasn't sure if he even noticed.

He glanced down to his other hand on her arm, then took it away, guard up. "There's always been something eerie about him," he noted.

"Maybe eerie isn't the right word," she offered, desperate to convince him of the thoughts she couldn't explain, desperate to ensure he didn't lean back, didn't take his eyes from her again.

He took a slow, manageable breath in. She wondered if his mind was as calm as he presented, if things really were so simple to him—crave an adventure, find it, want a woman, have her, no rules or laws to live by.

"Wrong," she declared. "There's something wrong with him."

His brows raised, seemingly ignorant to what she was trying to get out.

She searched the tufts of blue in his eyes, and she wondered if that were truly the case. Perhaps it was just his instinct to cover up what he really thought about Everson; she couldn't tell.

He shook his head once as if to clear it, then began transferring his weight to his arms so he could stand. Maybe it was reaction, or maybe it was greed, but Novari held tight to his wrist to stop him from moving.

He glanced back at her, expression asking for explanation, but that was quite the difficult question for her in the end. She knew what she wanted, what she'd wanted from day one, but her desires and her behaviours were at war more often than they weren't. Right now, she just didn't want him to take his arm off her leg. She just didn't want to lose the weight of him.

She reached for the collar of his jacket, so pristine, so done up. Even in the messiest of circumstance, he always seemed to be right at home.

"You knew I'd win," she declared quietly, fingers pausing in the space between his collar and neck. "Right?"

Not a single nerve nor muscle in his body broke his stillness. "I expected you would."

She brushed her thumb down the skin over his carotid, marvelling at how little he let it affect him. To her, letting someone do that would be the ultimate display of trust, like a cat exposing its underbelly. It would take but a mere second of pressure, and he'd be left with a similar injury to Everson.

"I didn't think it'd be smart to tell you as such," he noted, drawing her eyes back to his. So blue, so identical to the Myrian water beyond the windows.

She watched him, admiring the thick layer of calculation that lay beneath his decipherable exterior. His eyes dropped to her arm, then snapped up again, shifting from one side to the other. Would he move his arm, curl it around her waist to bring her closer? She'd never been so unsure.

He lifted his chin, lines drawing on his forehead as he struggled to read her thoughts.

She leaned further, the pad of her thumb catching on the stubble of his chin. She let her fingers graze the back of her neck, then brought him just the slightest bit nearer. He didn't want to be played with again—that was fine, that was reasonable. She'd make his move for him.

Before she could, he resisted back against her hand, just a little at first, then with everything he had. He pushed to his feet. Novari dropped her hand onto the covers, fingers cold. He'd pulled away.

Struggling to recover, she sat up further, disoriented. He'd pulled away. That didn't make sense. What about the infatuation, the memory of her in that cell he supposedly couldn't get out of his head?

"There's water for you," he told her, turning. "Just call if you need something." He reached for the door.

Novari opened her mouth to call him back, but nothing came out in the end; her pride wouldn't allow it. He closed the door behind him.

Little prickles of frustration crawled over her bare skin. Point him, she supposed. He got to be the one who pulled away for once, the one who had stake in their story, and she was left to be the one to pine.

She slipped her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet brushing the floor. She wouldn't let him win this. She couldn't let him win this. She didn't need him, not even a fraction. She'd just got caught up in the colour of his eyes and his arm on her thigh. She reached for her shirt, which was hardly more than tatters when she held it up to the light.

The door swung open behind her, and she stumbled as he came back through. Oh, he'd changed his mind. He'd pull her close now, pine once more.

"Sorry," he said. He reached over to take the spyglass off the dresser. He nodded down. "Shirts are top drawer, stunner." He closed the door behind him again.

She closed her mouth, blinking. So he was over it, just like that? He was back to his mild self, to his careless ways? It shouldn't matter, of course, because so was she. It hadn't meant anything; she'd just been trying to get the map.

But the taste of him was still in her mouth, and the weight of his fingers played over and over behind her eyelids—but what could she do now? Admit it?

She threw open the drawer and pulled one of the black shirts over her head. Her legs were the only part of her that wasn't sore, so she used her foot to tug the door open and spare her arm the trouble. The captain's quarters were bathed in a red glow, curtains drawn. He was settling down in his chair, papers strewn about the surface of the desk, but he looked up.

"You're not supposed to be up, stunner—"

She snapped back before he could finish, "Don't talk to me like I'm a port girl." She loved it when he called her that, but her ego wouldn't let her admit it. Why call her his little endearments just to pull away like had?

He had the gall to look confused. "Novari—" he started, coming around the side of the desk, but she was already reaching for the door. She had it closed behind her before he could say another word.

The sun blinded her as she did her best not to trip down the balcony steps. She knew not to make decisions in such an emotional state, but that kind of thing was hard to remember in said state. She jogged down the steps, heading for the first mate's room. To hell with Bardarian, with his pretty words last night and his pretty eyes this morning. To hell with anyone who had the ability to make her feel so out of control.

Bare feet hot on the black wood, Novari tried the first mate's door. Locked. She kicked it a few times. "Let me in!" she yelled.

The lock twisted, and Everson appeared in the doorway. He looked the exact same, just a bandage over his neck. He glanced down at her, amused.

"You look well," she noted. He seemed to heal faster than her.

"Better than you," he replied.

Novari pushed past him, into the room. It was bigger than hers; he had a window and a desk. As she examined the room, he spoke up from behind her, closing the door,

"You know," he said. "I think you're quite possible the most psychotic woman I've ever been involved with."

She spun around to face him, eyeing his bandage.

He pointed to her. "First you accuse me of forcing myself on you, and then you put your very sharp bone through my neck."

"I never accused you of doing anything to me," she corrected. "And the bone incident was unrelated. I just wanted to win."

"And win you did," he said, leaning against the door, giving her a grin.

Behind him, the door started to pull open, but he spun quick and tugged it back shut.

"Let me in!" came Miller's voice from the other side.

Everson laughed, holding tight. "I'd rather not. I've got Silta in here. She can heal me."

Miller pushed against the door again, and it budged slightly. "You should be dead!" she called. "You had the equivalent to a knife in your throat."

"And yet I'm not. Away with you, Miller," he said. "Silta will look at it."

"Silta isn't a doctor!"

"She's got better hands than you," Everson told her. "Stop pushing and go find someone else to harass."

Novari glanced at him. She healed because of Siren blood—why had he healed so quickly? He still had a bandage across his neck, so while it was possible anything important had just been missed, she wasn't quite sure. But then again, Bardarian had pulled away, and that was all the encouragement she needed.

"He's fine, Miller," Novari called out. "I promise."

There was a huff of frustration from the other side of the door, and then Miller padded away. Novari searched Everson's face as he turned back around. He was too confident, too repetitive in his mistakes, too unafraid of dying. There was something so very unsettling—wrong—with Adrian Everson.

But then again, Bardarian had pulled away, and this sick feeling of rejection was all she needed.

Novari sat down on his bed, smoothing out the duvet. "Let's just put it behind us," she said.