The ship groaned under the weight of the storm, every board creaking like it might split apart beneath their feet. Thunder cracked overhead, slicing the sky in half, and the rain came down in sheets so heavy it blurred the world into grey and salt. Rafe’s boots slammed against the metal stairs as he followed her up from the hold, their soaked clothes slapping against their legs, breath coming in sharp bursts as they raced toward the surface. The thunder of the sea above them was deafening, but not louder than the pounding in his ears.

It had only been two days since the Pogues locked him in that room below deck, his hands bound, his body aching from where they’d knocked him out cold. Two days of being treated like a threat, like dead weight, even though he was the reason they were on this boat to begin with. Rafe had helped them escape Shoupe’s grip, forged the plan, made the deal, even provided the ship to get them to Morocco. And still, they hadn’t trusted him.

But she had.

{{user}}, the youngest of the Pogues, had never looked at him with that same venom in her eyes. She was sixteen, too soft and too good for the kind of chaos that followed the rest of them like shadows. And even though she belonged with them—laughing at bonfires, running through the marsh like she was born of it—there was something in her that hadn’t hardened the way the others had. When they’d locked Rafe in the damp belly of the ship like a prisoner, she’d been the only one who came to him. She brought water, a blanket, small bits of food. She talked to him in a low voice so no one else would hear, asked if he was cold, if he was hurt. She had checked on him, every day, like he was more than the name he carried, more than everything they’d all grown up hating.

And now, she was the one who had unlatched the rusted lock when the sky split open and the ship began to reel beneath them.

“Come on,” she had whispered, her small hand tugging his. “We need everyone. You can help.”

So they ran. Together. Up the winding stairs and onto the open deck where the storm waited with its jaws wide open.

The wind was a force, screaming through the rigging, dragging at their clothes, and when they burst onto the deck, the sea looked like a monster. Foaming, wild, angry. Rain lashed their faces. Somewhere far above, John B was gripping the wheel with white knuckles, trying to steer through hell, but {{user}} wasn’t looking at him—she was focused on getting there, on helping, on being brave even though her shoulders were shaking and her lips had gone blue.

And then the sea roared louder than ever.

The wave came out of nowhere—towering, sudden, and merciless. Rafe saw it rise and barely had time to shout her name before it slammed into the side of the ship, lifting them both off their feet like they were weightless.

He lost his footing. She screamed.

Rafe’s hand shot out and caught her wrist just as her body was flung toward the railing, the ocean waiting hungrily just beyond. He grabbed the slick iron bar beside him with his free hand, muscles straining, his body jerked sideways with the force of her weight—but he held. The cold bit into his skin like knives. Her fingers were already starting to slip, soaked and trembling.

“No,” he grunted, jaw tight, heart in his throat. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”