It is a serene early morning in the middle of the Arctic ocean.
Whooshing of waves and twittering birds echo as they fly across the deep blue, shimmering ocean, looking–through the kaleidoscopic sky illustrated by the rising sun.
The cateraman boat they are on is stable and spaciou, with reduced rocking and heeling.
Ishmael stands before Neva's cabin, fist raised, contemplating if he should knock on the wooden door.
It has been around eleven hours since they harbored on the cateraman boat.
But he cannot catch any sleep.
He hasn't even unearthed a good look at Neva from the moment they embarked on a sail.
And now, he cannot endure this torment anymore.
He knocks on the door.
No answer.
He knocks again.
His heart quickens with each stifling seconds fleeting. Knees weakening, thoughts spiralling—unknown possibilities seeping dullness in him.
He swallows.
Hand raised to knock—when the door opens, revealing a shirtless Rhett.
Ishmael stiffens.
Impulsively, his gaze slits through to find Neva on the bed.
She looks at him, face peeking through the agape opening of the white duvet, covering all of her but her head, messy vines of midnight locks spilling accross the cloud like pillow.
She immediately turns her face to the other side.
His heart is numb. His insides are cruxed. An agony so intense and vicious begins poisoning his lucidity.
He moves to step inside, but a rough force on his chest compels him to stumble back.
Ishmael looks at Rhett's blackened face.
Rhett lunges at him, fisting the collar of Ishmael's beige shirt, his knuckles turning white.
He glares at Ishmael, jaw locked.
His nostrils flare as he breathes heavily.
Debating...
Ishmael stares at him with barren eyes.
Then, with a sharp jerk, Rhett lets him off.
He turns and walks into the cabin, slamming the door shut in Ishmael's face.
Ishmael just stands there before Neva's cabin for a long moment.
Another man inside the closed door with his wife.
And astray, he just stares at the door with blood–rimmed veins in those glazed eyes.
---
Neva flinches as Rhett pounds the rim of the door against the jamb.
His back is turned on her.
His head dips, fist planted on the door. He is shaking. He is angry.
The muscles in his broad and moderately tanned back clench.
Augmenting his perfectly virile body are the wide, sinewy shoulders narrowing down to a lean waist, clad low in a black jogger pants.
Ishmael came looking for her.
As if it means nothing.
That this scenario can be moulded and altered to fit his preferred imagination.
That the lives he batters and bruises are only some sort of a game of puppetry—manipulated by his treacherous hands.
Neva's eyes are somber. How long is this plight to go on?
She knows Rhett is suffering.
All of them are. But she is unaware to how deep this anguish has penetrated him.
She turns on her side and faces Rhean, who lies beside her at an angle facing her.
He is a beautiful boy, in deep sleep.
The left of his bread cheek is squished, and lips agaped, he breathes evenly.
She caresses his rosy cheek, a thumb tenderly stroking the softness of him. And at that moment, footsteps nears the bed.
She looks up at Rhett, his tall frame hovering. She cannot help the crimson blush creeping up her warm cheeks at his deep stare.
Each inch of his tanned, hardened body drips with sensual carnality.
His rugged, crafted chest and torso are ripped, patterned with rock–hard eight–pack abs and enhanced roots of muscles twists his sides.
The strong blades of bones working down his waist.
"Thirsting for me?" Rhett lifts a brow, sinewy arms crossed over his chest.
Neva threads their eyes. She purses her lips and turns round.
Heat pulses her face, and blushing chest.
Neva feels the bed plunge as Rhett climbs on the bed and slips under the duvet.
An arm slithers around her waist—closening her to him.
Her clothed back collides with his warm bare chest.
This heat merging, making her toes curl. She sucks a sharp breath in, her heart pounding cruelly faster.
Rhett brushes aside the strands of hair veiling the side of her face and kisses her jaw.
He moves to her ear and nibbles on her earlobe.
He then lingers, planting slow, wet kisses on her neck and down her shoulder.
Neva bites her lip, to forbid any sinful sound escaping her.
He kisses up her smooth, milky neck, licking and grazing caringly with his teeth over a certain sweet spot.
Neva's breathing becomes shallower.
Her eyes close tightly.
Strong arms tighten around her, pleasure accompanied by a slight sting on her skin—intensifying the fusion of a painful pining.
"If Rhean weren't here," he murmered in her ear.
"I'd take you right now," his deep, hot and husky voice rasp against her neck—melting in passion and desire.
Her face grows hotter and cherry red.
A forest of butterflies wildly flutter, squeezing her belly. She clenches her thighs together.
"Maybe if you were quieter—" "No!" Neva immediately cuts off Rhett's forthcoming lascivious remark, her voice stern but hushed.
She meets his darkened eyes.
She caresses his cheek, feeble stubble in his unshaved jaw rough against her palm. His expression is soft—yet inflamed.
"Not yet," Neva whispers, her voice quivering.
"I know. I was just kidding." Rhett reveals a small smile and rubs the tips of their noses together.
She just smiles, brushing away strands of his tousled hair falling down his forehead.
"How long will it take to reach there?" Neva asks.
"If the weather window doesn't fluctuate, it'll likely take another day or two with the speed we're going." Rhett says, lovingly drawing over Neva's velvet lips with a thumb.
"I have to go. It's my turn to keep watch." He leans and captures her lips in a brief kiss.
Neva just hums in response.
He detaches from her warm embrace, the duvet falling as gets off the bed.
"I'll follow you in a moment." Neva says, as he pulls over a grey sweatshirt over his head.
"Alright." He closens to her and kisses her forehead. Once more down on her lips, before he finally leaves the cabin and closes the door behind.
Neva sighs softly and turns to her son again.
She boops his little nose, that resembles a smaller version of his father's.
Rhean is a deep sleeper, and will not budge even if she lightly pinches his cheek.
Rhett came to her cabin four hours ago for a quick nap after Ace took over the ocean's route observation.
He has shown her the unclaimed Island allocated in the Arctic ocean on the satellite map that Ishmael brandished as Miraeth.
Back in the Courtyard house, they had discussed certain prospects over Miraeth and she grasps further unknown to her.
Miraeth is 3,000 nautical miles distant afar from Erriador.
The Island is closed off and cryptic. They are depending on visual cues and natural landmarks, the waves and swell patterns in the ocean resultant to Ishmael's instigation.
Sky stays behind for apparent reasons. She will monitor the situation from Erriador and sort out with Elk if the need arises.
It is secure to have someone Rhett can trust on the mainland to cover for them.
Neva climbs off the bed. After she adjusts the slipping duvet over Rhean, and mounts a hill of pillows on the edge to prevent him from falling—she drapes a red shawl round her body and walks out to check on the twins who is sleeping with their father.
Fortunately, none of the children is suffering sea–sickness and are rather ecstatic to be in the boat.
Neva knocks on the door and internally prays for Ishmael's abscence.
She does not want to talk to him or even see him.
"They are still asleep." Ishmael says from behind.
Neva taken aback immediately turns to face him.
She locks eyes with him.
And his withering face from before when he was at her cabin's door flashed in her eyes.
She dreads this pang of abysmal in her chest which she should not have a reason to feel.
She cannot have betrayed him.
For it is him; his avarice and narcissm that she is shoved this malicious position.
Neva averts her gaze and moves to head toward the cockpit where Rhett will be.
But Ishmael catches her wrist.
As though he chars her skin, she reflexively breaks off from his grip.
"Love—" "Don't call me that!" Neva brutally remarks.
Hastened footsteps tremble the ground, and before she can grasp the scene—a fist snaps into Ishmael's jaw.
Neva gasps, hands flying over her face as Rhett slams Ishmael against the wall.
"Stay. Away. From. Her."
Ishmael meets Rhett's glare with cold indifference.
To him, Rhett is a naive fellow and not worty wasting his energy on.
He refuses to acknowledge him. Even as his face turn an eerie shade of blue, Rhett's cold hands wound tight like a vice around his neck—smothering him.
And he realizes it too late when his legs give out beneath him, the strength in his arms fading fast as they flail, uselessly attempting to fracture Rhett's cemented grip.
Nails scrape skin. Air wheezes from the crushed lungs.
Tears stream down Neva's face. Voice cracking as she yells, fingernails digging into Rhett's arm, desperately trying to peel him off Ishmael.
But he does not listen.
Rhett is deafened... He is blinded with rage. His skin is burning hot under her touch, taut with rage.
Before murder claims the chaos, in this desolate stretch of nowhere—where her children sleep away beneath the same fragile roof, Neva barges into Ace's cabin.
.
.
.
Ishmael collapses forward, coughing violently, his body folded over.
His fingers tremble as they clutch his neck, gasping for breath.
"You almost killed him." Ace says flatly, dissapointment evident in his cold frown directed at his Boss.
There's something menacing in the way Rhett looks at Ishmael.
A twisted hunger, dark eyes unblinking, burning with bloodlust.
Neva stands frozen, trembling, heart hammering in her chest, her mind still reeling.
What just happened?
Rhett would have killed Ishmael if Ace didn't arrive when he did.
"Lock him in." Rhett mutters. His voice is hoarse, hollow.
He grabs Neva by the wrist—not harsh, but firm and marches towards the stairs, up to the cockpit.