Aliyah's POV
The world had narrowed to the thin strip in my hand. Two lines. Dark. Certain. The wet sand clung to my knees, the cold soaking through the thin fabric of my pants, but I barely felt it. The ocean roared somewhere beyond me, steady and merciless, like it knew something I didn't want to admit.
I stared until the lines blurred. My fingers trembled. I couldn't breathe properly—the air felt thick, useless.
A shadow moved over me.
"Aliyah?"
I jerked my head up. Asher was standing a few feet away, his brows knit in confusion. The drizzle had turned into a fine mist, coating his jacket in a faint sheen. His eyes searched my face. "What's wrong?"
I quickly shoved the strip into my pocket before he could see it. The plastic felt like it burned against my thigh. "Nothing," I said too fast. "Just… dizzy for a second."
His gaze lingered on me, skeptical. "You're pale."
"I said I'm fine." My voice came out sharper than I meant, so I softened it. "Really. Just tired."
Inside, panic clawed at me. Cohen's voice echoed in my head, sneering. You're not enough. You never will be. And behind it, Papa's stern tone, always demanding, always judging. What would he say if he knew? What would they both do?
The urge to bolt almost overtook me—to grab my bag, run down the beach, vanish like I had before. But Asher was standing there, and there was nowhere to go without him noticing.
Before either of us spoke again, a voice called from farther up the shore.
"You two look like ghosts."
We both turned. A woman was making her way toward us, boots squelching in the sand. She was in her fifties, sun-browned skin and silver-threaded hair pulled into a loose braid. Her coat was patched in places, and a fishing net hung over one shoulder.
Marla. I'd seen her once or twice in town, always near the docks.
Funny she never invited me to join her fishing.
She stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking between us. "Storm's rolling in," she said. "You'll freeze if you keep standing out here. Come have some tea at my shack. Warm you right up."
Her voice was gruff but not unkind. She didn't pry, though I could tell she'd noticed the tension.
Most people are very nosy. But she pretends as though she doesn't see the secrets we hide.
Asher glanced at me, a silent question. I nodded because saying no felt like it would draw more attention than I wanted.
We followed her up the path, the wet sand giving way to rocky soil and scattered grass. The air smelled of salt and seaweed. A gull cried overhead.
Marla's shack sat near the edge of a cliff, a squat, weather-beaten thing with nets hanging from the porch and glass floats swaying in the wind. Inside, it was warmer than I expected. The scent of woodsmoke and something herbal filled the room. A small fire crackled in a stone hearth, and shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of dried fish, herbs, and bits of polished driftwood.
"Sit," she said, waving us toward a low table near the fire. She clattered around the counter, setting water to boil.
I sank onto the cushion, keeping my coat buttoned, as if the layers could hide everything—my nerves, my shaking hands, the truth in my pocket.
Asher sat beside me, stretching his legs out. He seemed at ease here, leaning back slightly, his gaze following Marla as she worked.
"Are you still pulling nets in this weather?" he asked, his tone light, almost teasing.
"Someone has to keep you boys fed," Marla shot back without looking over.
I blinked. I'd never seen Asher like this—relaxed, almost playful. He asked about her catch, about the new motor she'd put on her boat, even about her cat, which apparently liked to steal fish heads from the bucket. His voice softened in a way that made something twist in my chest.
I smiled when Marla brought over the tea, though my lips felt stiff. The cup was chipped, but the steam curled up in comforting spirals. I held it close, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
"You're quiet, girl," Marla said, settling into a chair across from us.
"Just tired," I murmured.
She didn't press. Instead, she told a story about a fisherman who'd tried to take his boat out in a gale and ended up having to swim back. Asher chuckled at the right moments, and I managed a few smiles, though my mind wasn't on the tale. Every time my pocket shifted against my thigh, I thought of the two lines again, like they were etched into my skin.
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, wind rattled the glass floats. I focused on those sounds instead of the conversation, letting them fill the spaces in my head.
Eventually, Asher glanced at me. "Ready to head back?"
"Yes." My voice came out too quickly, and Marla's eyes flickered over me.
I avoided her eyes. I came to understand that looking people directly in the eyes is giving them the opportunity to read you as plainly as a book.
I didn't want to be analyzed like that. Not by an old strange fisher woman.
She stood and walked us to the door, her boots creaking on the wooden floor. The air outside was colder now, the sky low and heavy with clouds.
Asher started down the path toward the beach. I followed, but Marla caught my arm lightly, holding me back.
Her gaze was steady, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "You can run from a man," she said, "but you can't run from what's already inside you."
The wind whipped her braid over her shoulder.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat.
By the time I looked at her again, she'd already turned back toward her shack, leaving me standing in the cold with the truth burning in my pocket.