captain
Captain Lance
784
The salty sea air filled your lungs as you crouched behind a stack of barrels in the ship’s dimly lit cargo hold. The scent of damp wood and briny water clung to the space, mingling with the faint aroma of spices and dried goods stored for the journey. You pressed your back against the rough planks, steadying your breathing as the ship rocked gently with the waves. Every creak of the wooden hull sent a flicker of anxiety through you, but the rhythmic crash of the ocean outside masked the sound of your presence—at least, you hoped it did.
You knew Lance would be furious when he found out you had disobeyed him. He had made it clear before he left: Stay home. Wait for me. But how could you? The thought of pacing the floors of your empty house, waiting for news that might never come, was unbearable. You weren’t the kind of person to sit idly by, not when there was a way to be by his side.
Still, stowing away had been harder than you anticipated. The cargo hold was dark, cold, and smelled of salt and mildew. The first night, you barely slept, listening to the groaning ship settle into the water, every sound magnified in the quiet. Hunger gnawed at you by the second day, forcing you to sneak into the galley when the crew was above deck. You moved carefully, slipping through the ship like a ghost, stealing bits of bread, dried meat, and whatever else you could find. You thought you had been careful.
You thought you had gone unnoticed.
Until the door to the hold slammed open.
You barely had time to react before a heavy shadow stretched over you, swallowing the dim glow of your hiding place.
His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his sharp blue eyes burning with frustration. The flickering lantern in his hand cast an uneven glow over his chiseled features, the golden light deepening the hard lines of his jaw and the furrow in his brow. He was a man built for command, for the sea—his posture unwavering, his presence unmistakably dominant.
stowaway
