The ship groaned as it adjusted to a change in the wind, a deep, subterranean sound that vibrated through the floorboards. Elena finally moved to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling her knees to her chest.
She thought of Jackson. Back home, the nights were silent, broken only by the chirping of crickets or the distant howl of a scavenger. Here, the silence was a lie. The ship was alive, breathing, and filled with men who lived on the edge of a blade.
"I have to get out," she whispered into the darkness. "Before I start believing his lies. Before I start liking the way he looks at me."
She began to mentally inventory the room, looking for anything she could use. A heavy brass candlestick. A letter opener on the desk. A silk scarf draped over a chair. None of it was enough to take on a crew of seasoned killers, but it was a start. She began to formulate a plan—something desperate, involving the coordinates Smith had mentioned and the landing at dawn.
