Page 73 of Phobia

“Dear God, if I had to be stuck in the middle of fuck-all with someone, did it have to be Henry?” Oliver grimaced up at the sky. “What did I do to deserve this?”

I could relate to that.

His white uniform clung to the broad but fragile twist of his shoulders as he sat up slowly, another pained intake of air expelling from his chapped, pink lips. Just looking at how emotive he was made my skin crawl. He was free in a way I never would be. He was not shackled by his bloodline or fortune. Free to carve his way through the world. Free to make mistakes. Free to pickpocket whomever he pleased, no matter who it hurt.

At least our dislike was mutual.

“You know what I hate about you the most?” Oliver asked as he leaned heavily against the side of the boat, causing it to rock, and my knuckles to grow white with tension where I squeezed them atop my thighs. He kept staring at me, and I struggled not to hide my hands behind my back, for fear of him seeing the way they trembled.

I glared, knowing he was going to tell me even without my permission.

“I hate the fact that even though we’re fuckingstranded—” Oliver gestured around us at the open water but I refused to look.

I didn’t want to see the hungry lapping of the waves. Didn’t want to see the emptiness. The blackness. The endless span of wave after wave after wave. I didn’t need to see it to know there were miles of black water beneath us. Countless hungry creatures twisting through the currents below. Our boat just a blip, where it blocked the moonlight, casting shadows to beckon the creatures of the deep to the surface.

“You still look completely fucking put together.” Oliver glared at me some more but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “You’ve still got that same smug expression on your stupid fat head.”

“My head is not fat.”

Oliver scoffed. For some reason, his ire made me want to laugh. We’d interacted loads before, ever since father had banished me to work at our boatyard in retribution for my sins. Despite my obvious dislike for my situation and the difference in our social standing, Oliver had never been openly hostile toward me before. Like me, he’d been surviving, working together despite the boiling heat that simmered between us from the moment we’d met. He got under my skin, but I got under his too. Not that he’d ever acknowledged the wedge between us aloud. Only now, alone, in the dark, did he feel brave enough to speak out.

We were too different.

He was…well, poor. Uneducated. Uncouth. I hesitated to think those things, as my nurse maids had raised me better than to judge others based on what they lacked monetarily. It was hard to ignore them, however, when just looking at Oliver made my skin crawl. I’d spent nearly a month trying to figure out what it was about him that drove me so out of my mind. He had faults. Many of them. But his poverty and lack of education were not what I disliked about him.

No. What I didn’t like about him was his penchant for dishonesty. I could see it lurking behind the charming twist to his lips, his charisma just a serpent waiting to strike. I didn’t like the way I could taste his lies on the air. It was unfair that he was able to get whatever he wanted—because he wanted it. Not because he’dearnedit. Just because he was, objectively speaking, nice to look at and knew how to flirt his way out of trouble.

He probably thought the same of me, minus the flirting. I wasn’t blind. I knew from the sneer of his lip or the dimming of his gaze every time I spoke of home that he envied my family. My father’s money was a mountain between us I knew had only become taller the longer we knew each other. He resented my social standing. He hated the fact I had what he didn’t. He was jealous. He probably thought my life was as easy as I knew his was. He had no idea how blessed he actually was. I didn’t have his social skills. I didn’t have his freedom. I had money, but freedom was better than gold, wasn’t it?

He was ungrateful.

Oliver moved and the boat wobbled, knocking me out of my reverie. Unable to help my reaction, a panicked breath managed to escape my throat. Immediately, he paused. I could feel the weight of his eyes as he stared at me, and I bore a hole in his left shoulder, unwilling to meet his gaze for fear that he’d see right through me. Sadly, hiding had been pointless. Those broad shoulders stiffened, a panicked breath of his own shuddering through his skinny but well-defined chest. His whole body grew rigid as he stopped fiddling behind himself, looking for paddles or whatever the hell he was looking for.

Unable to help myself I glanced up at his eyes.

Green.

Molten, hot.

Pale as the artisan-crafted stained glass Father had used to decorate the entryway to our manor.

“You can’t be serious.” Oliver’s eyes blazed with fury. Sea-glass turned to ice. Except, this time I didn’t know what he was angry about. “Are you…scared?”

Ah. What a ridiculous question.

Of course I was fucking scared, though I wasn’t uncouth enough to swear at him. Or brave enough to admit it. “No.”

“You are!” He kept staring at me, the triumphant look on his face warring with a good mix of fear and resentment. Then his expression fell. The fire in his eyes snuffed out. “Oh fuck.” He drooped, his head falling back against the lip of the boat as his wicked grin fell away. “Oh fuck. Ifyou’rescared thenIshould probably be terrified.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t honestly not know you’re kind of…” He waved a hand at me. “Blank?” He blinked. “Mr. Unbothered. Nothing ever ruffles you.”

That was a fat load of shit. Of course things bothered me.

Exhibit A was sitting right in front of me.

“No matter how much I poke at you, you never react.” Oliver’s face scrunched up as he stared at me. Only it wasn’t an admiring gaze, it was assessing.