Chapter 42

# Day 14 - 6:00

Zhao was up an hour before dawn. He knew this because the marine forecast still sang from the weather radio by the galley: cloudless, calm, nothing but rolling glass out to the horizon, no sign of the westward squall that had troubled them the night before. The aft deck was abandoned, every step on the immitation wooden floor resounding as if he walked the length of the world alone. The air was muggy, pungent with bait, sweat, and the ozone tang of a thousand generations of seagull shit. His stomach growled so loudly he was sure it would scare the fish.

Even before the sun, the water was alive. Mahi-mahi, yellowtail, even bluefin if he was lucky—all followed the ship’s slow, constant wake, picking scraps from the refuse drifting behind. Zhao set two lines, one with a treble hook and a ragged strip of gaffed sardine, the other with a large diving minnows lure that he’d managed to salvage from Kim’s off-shift box. Both lines ran through battered Wakefront carbon rods, but they held. He knelt by the rail, bracing the butt of one rod in his hip, and stared down at the surface, watching for the telltale flick of silver.

The ship rationed protein like heroin, doling out synthetic gloop and algae bars by the quarter-calorie. But fish—fish could double the numbers for the entire security squad. The catch had been good, lately, but never enough to dent the gnaw in his belly. They’d have to set up fishing shifts, round the clock, just to keep up with the needs of the day.

Which was why, before sunrise, he was teaching Victoria Elise how to fish.

Except she was late.

This was not like her. On the Victoria—her lost ship, her namesake—she’d been legendarily precise: always first to the briefing, last to the fight, the one to run security like a ballet of violence and deadlines. Even after being transferred here, she never missed a mark. But as the sky turned the color of bruised grapefruit and he’d already logged an hour, she was nowhere.

By seven, Zhao had two mahi in the bucket, both so fresh the tails still kicked when he moved them. He filleted the first with Kim’s spare knife, slicing in one long draw down the backbone. The flesh was pink and perfect, the kind of thing you’d see in a sushi bar in the before-times, now just a sacrament for the living. He tried not to think about how fast it would disappear.

He heard her before he saw her—Victoria’s voice, traveling ahead like a searchlight. “And here I thought you’d be up to your armpits in girl sweat, mate,” she called. “But you’re fishing alone?” The British accent was thicker than usual; she always did this when she wanted to be funny.

He turned, fillet knife in one hand, fish tail in the other. “You’re late,” he said.

She shrugged, sauntering up to the rail. “Had to break up a catfight near engineering. These days, everyone’s a powder keg. Besides, you started without me. Cheating, really.”

She wore a hot pink one-piece swimsuit and mirrored aviators that looked like a dare. She stretched, reaching overhead in a way that felt calculated, then peeled the suit off with a single, showy motion. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, which caught him by surprise, and she knew it. “Sun’s barely up and you’re already overdressed,” she said, folding the suit and placing it neatly on a rail cleat. “I’d tan naked, but security would probably report me for inciting unrest.”

He couldn’t help but look. Her body was absurd: all curves and muscle, with an athlete’s shoulders, wide hips, and breasts that seemed to have defied gravity through sheer force of will. Her nipples caught the chill breeze, rosy and tight, and she made no move to cover herself.

“Catch anything yet?” she asked, squinting down at the cooler.

He showed her the fish, and she whistled. “Impressive. Not bad for a first catch.”

“You’re not here to watch,” he said, returning to the lines. “You wanted to learn, right?”

She grinned, then sidled up to him, her skin brushing his shoulder. “Right. Teach me, master.”

He tried not to roll his eyes. Instead, he showed her how to brace the rod, how to let the line play out with her thumb, how to spot the difference between current and strike. She listened, for once, without talking over him, her eyes tracking every movement. Her hands were rough, strong, and when she cast, she put her whole body into it, the flick of her hips almost indecent.

He felt himself getting hard.

Not just because she was naked—though that would do it—but because she made every small act into a performance. When she leaned forward to check the bait, her ass stuck out perfectly, tan lines accenting the roundness. She laughed every time she reeled in, whether she caught something or not.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why’s it so slow? Thought you said they were biting.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a video game. Patience.”

She faked a yawn. “You sure this isn’t just an excuse to stare at my arse all morning?”

He tried to answer, but his voice caught. She laughed, then turned, propping herself up on the rail and letting her legs dangle over the water. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. Most men would have fainted by now.”

“I’m used to it,” he said, then regretted the line.

She didn’t let it go. “Are you? Because last time I recall, you could barely look at me without turning red.”

He looked away, down at the water, at the distant edge of the world. “You were handcuffed to a pipe. It was different.”

She gave a slow, dramatic sigh. “Best night of my life, honestly. Shame I barely remember it. Had a concussion and a half, and still came harder than I have in a decade.”

He swallowed, the memory flashing bright and hot. “You want to do it again, you know the drill.”

She snorted. “Not for another week. Protocol. Boring.” She turned back, resting her elbows on the rail. “You know, in my experience, these things never work out. The ship, the rules, the little bits of civilization. Sooner or later, everyone reverts. You can run a harem for a while, but then someone gets greedy. Or angry. Or just… hungry.” She eyed him, her gaze not quite joking now. “You think you can keep up? All these women, all these needs?”

“I’m trying,” he said, and meant it.

She softened, just a touch. “You’re better than most.” She reeled in her line, checked the bait, and recast with practiced ease. “You know why I like fishing naked?”

He didn’t answer.

She continued. “Makes me feel honest. No bullshit. You either catch or you don’t. There’s no pretending.” She watched the line cut through the water, trailing behind the ship as they trolled for bigger game. “I used to sunbathe naked every weekend. Even before the end. Kept me sane.” She grinned, then nudged his thigh with her foot. “You want to rub lotion on me, or should I wait for the tide to come in?”

He laughed, then realized she was serious. She produced a half-tube of SPF 50 from somewhere and lobbed it to him. The sight of the tube made him pause—these had become rare treasures on board, rationed carefully by the quartermaster. He caught it, turning it over in his hands, wondering which supply officer she'd charmed or threatened to get it. "Don't be shy," she said, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Hit every inch."

He worked the lotion into her shoulders, careful not to linger. She guided his hands down her arms, then across her chest, making him rub in slow circles until her breasts glistened in the morning sun. She insisted on her back, then her thighs, then—without breaking eye contact—between her legs. She spread for him, casual and clinical, and when he hesitated, she laughed. “It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, love.”

He did as told, the pulse in his cock rising with every pass. When he finished, she wiped her hands on his shorts, leaving a white streak across the fabric.

“That’s better,” she said, then reached down and cupped his crotch, squeezing just enough to make him jump. “You’re tense.”

He pulled away. “Save it for the next round.”

She laughed again, full-throated and shameless.

They fished in silence for a while, side by side, her skin gleaming and his hands smelling of coconut. He watched the line, but his mind replayed every detail of her body, the confidence, the unapologetic hunger.

He broke the silence first. “Why do you think you’re not converting?” he asked, the question sudden but honest. “When I treated you, the dawn meter was higher than I’ve ever seen. And you’re fine. No symptoms. Nothing.”

She mulled this over, then shrugged. “Always been a freak,” she said. “Maybe it’s my mind. Learned to fight panic, not let it in. The virus only gets you when you give up, right? I don’t. Not ever.” She licked her finger, checked the wind, then pointed at him. “Or maybe I’m just too horny for death. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He smiled, but the question gnawed at him. “You meditate?”

She blinked. “Yeah. My mate from the army was Buddhist. Showed me how to shut off the world, even in the worst shit. I used to do it for sniping, but after the world ended, it was the only thing that kept me from going mental.” She paused, then looked at him, serious. “You want me to teach you? Or your crew? I’d do it. In exchange for a therapy session.”

He grunted. “What kind of session?”

She grinned, showing perfect teeth. “The fun kind. Aida, Mei-Lin, you, me, maybe even Vivienne if she’s game. All in. No holds barred.”

He hesitated, but the image was impossible to resist. “Deal,” he said, then added, “If Aida and Mei-Lin agree.”

She patted his leg, her palm warm. “You’re a peach, Zhao. Really.” She reeled in, checked the line, and let the silence grow again.

After a minute, her face changed. She looked out at the water, then back at him, eyes focused. “Can I say something? Not to be weird.”

He nodded.

She pursed her lips, the smile fading. “I trust you more than any other woman on this ship. And I say ‘woman’ on purpose, because in my experience, women are more dangerous than men. Men, you put them in a pecking order, give them something to fight for, and they’ll follow it. But women… we fragment. We scheme. We break into tribes, and the alliances change every day.” She watched a gull skim the water, then turned back. “That’s not a judgment, just a fact. On my last ship, the second the men went, it was Game of Thrones every meal. I thought it’d be the same here, but it’s… not. Not yet.”

He didn’t know how to answer.

She pressed on. “It’s too calm. Too easy. I’ve run a thousand security shifts, and it’s never this quiet. That means someone else is running the show, and I don’t think it’s Verne. She’s the muscle, not the mind. You know what I mean?”

He thought of Sophie Laurent, her silent power, the way even Captain Verne deferred to her. He didn’t say it out loud, but it was all he could think about.

She smirked. “Yeah, I see you get it. Don’t tell me if you know more—I’d rather be surprised. But keep your eyes open, mate. You’re the only man left on this boat. And that makes you a target, whether you like it or not.”

He nodded, trying to play it cool. “I’ll watch my back.”

She snorted. “Your back, your front, your sides. I’m just saying—be careful. Not everyone’s as straightforward as me.”

He wanted to ask more, but the rod bent, line screaming out of the reel. Victoria reacted instantly, grabbing the rod and leaning back, muscles corded in her arms as she fought the fish. It was a big one, maybe twice the size of the morning’s catch. She reeled with both hands, bare feet planted, her whole body tense and vibrating.

He steadied the cooler as she worked, and after a solid minute, she landed the fish: a glistening, iridescent king mackerel, scales flashing blue and green in the morning sun. She whooped, hoisting it overhead, then slammed it down on the deck with a single, fatal blow.

“Easy,” he said, impressed.

She panted, hair sticking to her cheeks. “Better than an orgasm,” she declared. “Though, to be fair, my standards are high.”

He helped her unhook it, then bled the fish into the bucket, the scent rich and wild. When he looked up, she was sitting cross-legged, the fish beside her, her face suddenly pensive.

He let the quiet settle, waiting.

After a long pause, she said, “You’re lucky, you know. Being on the right side of Vivienne.”

He didn’t follow.

She explained. “She’s strong. Not just on paper. She’ll run this ship someday, if she wants. Maybe more.” She glanced at him, then away. “Just… if things go south, don’t let her make you forget who you are.”

He nodded, feeling the words like a rock in his chest. Aida's face flashed in his mind—her quiet determination, her gentle hands that never demanded. Vivienne was moving like a warship on calm waters, and Aida stood directly in her path. This wasn't just bedroom politics anymore; the stakes had risen beyond who warmed his bed or claimed his heart. Victoria's warning had simply confirmed what his gut had been telling him for days. It was the beginning of something dangerous that needed to be defused before someone got hurt.

She shrugged, then stood, stretching again, the muscles along her back flexing like a cat’s. “Anyway. Fun lesson, mate. We should do this every morning.”

She slipped her suit back on, slow and deliberate, then tossed him the sunscreen. “Don’t forget the neck. You’ll regret it later.”

He watched her walk away, hips swaying, and for a moment the deck felt twice as cold. He gutted the fish, washed his hands, and set up the lines for another round. The sky was darker now, clouds gathering on the western horizon.

Calm before the storm, he thought. It was never just fishing. Never just sex, or food, or survival.

It was always about who held the line, and who let it go.

He packed the fish into the cooler, shouldered the rod, and made his way back inside, the taste of salt and warning sharp on his tongue.