Page 45 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor's Destiny
And now I stood by the railing, enduring the wind tangling my hair and whipping it into my face as I stared into the vast, endless sea. England was gone, swallowed by the world I had left it behind for.
And then, suddenly—he was there.
I felt him before I saw him, his presence a force in the air, a heat even in the cold wind. He moved like a shadow given form, stepping to my side without a sound, his gaze locked on the horizon as if he could see something I couldn't.
"Where were you?" I asked before I could stop myself, the question grating against my own resolve.
Vardor didn't answer immediately. Instead, he inhaled deeply, his expression unreadable.
"I do not sleep," he said at last, his voice rough as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
A chill rippled down my spine. "That's—" I stopped, shaking my head. "That's not possible."
His gaze shifted to me, black and fathomless, while the wind stirred his long dark hair. "I am not a man."
I swallowed. He was insane.
Before I could respond, the ship's captain approached, his boots heavy against the deck. He was a broad man with sun-lined skin, his coat tattered at the edges, but his sharp eyes were kind when they met mine.
"Got yourself a fine set of sea legs already, madam," he said with a grin. "Not many ladies keep their footing on a ship's first day out."
I opened my mouth to respond, but Vardor moved before I could speak.
The air shifted, thickening like a storm about to break.
His hand closed over my wrist, his grip possessive but not painful, his body shifting slightly toward the captain in a way that sent a silent but undeniable message.
Mine!
The captain's easy demeanor stiffened as he looked between us. "No offense meant," he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Just an observation."
Vardor said nothing, but the tension around him coiled like a predator ready to strike. I stepped forward before things could spiral, placing a hand on his chest—a mistake.
His body was like stone beneath my fingers; heat radiated from him even through his shirt and coat. He looked down at me, his jaw tight, as if he hadn't expected me to touch him at all.
"Thank you, Captain," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "I suppose I've always been quick to adjust."
The captain hesitated, his gaze lingering on Vardor before he nodded. "Aye, well, best adjust to something else now."
He tipped his head toward the horizon. "A storm's coming."
The words sent a shudder through me, though I wasn't sure why. The air did feel heavier now, the sky darker than before, the water no longer smooth but restless.
Vardor's hand finally released my wrist, and his fingers flexed once before he turned toward the open sea. His jaw tightened. "I know."
A gust of wind ripped through the deck, tangling my hair and driving a sharp chill through my coat. The captain yelled at his sailors to secure the rigging. He nodded at Vardor. "Best that the Missis below deck. The storm's gonna hit us hard."
I hesitated. The thought of being trapped below, away from the open air, away from the sea, made my stomach twist. Butthen I looked at Vardor—his dark gaze locked onto the churning horizon, his expression one I had never seen before. He looked expectant, as if the thought of riding out this storm excited him. I shuddered at the realization thatheprobably would.
The ship lurched violently; the jolt sent the lantern swinging overhead, its dim light casting wild shadows along the wooden walls of the cabin. The storm raged outside, waves slamming against the hull with a force that made the entire ship shudder, groaning under the weight of the sea's fury.
Roweena pressed herself against the wall, and her fingers clutched the edge of the bunk so hard that her knuckles were white. I watched the bodice of her dress move up and down in quick succession as her breathing increased. Her entire body trembled—not from the cold, but from something deeper.
Fear.
I had known fear before—tasted it in the air, thick with the stench of blood and desperation, had seen it in the eyes of warriors who knew they would not live to see another sunrise. It was an instinct, a survival response, a weakness that separated mortals from gods.
The only time I had ever suffered from it was during my first battle, when I was still a man, still foolish enough to believe death was something to be feared.
