The Current Between US

Undercurrent.

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*Chapter 6: Undercurrent*

Beatrice didn’t breathe until the guard moved past her trunk.

Her hands shook. Not from the search. Not from the cold. From Bale’s eyes.

When they met hers, it felt like he’d reached into her head and pulled out the one thing she’d never said aloud. The one thing she’d buried deep and told no one, not even Mom.

She knew what he was. Mom told her at twelve, voice low like a warning: _“Bale hears thoughts. That’s why we left the reef guard post. That’s why we don’t speak certain things at home. Some thoughts are doors, and he walks through them.”_

Beatrice had learned to keep her mind quiet since then. No names. No images. No pictures of the silver comb. Just surface thoughts, dull and boring: _Check the net. Watch the tide. Breathe. Don’t think._

Bale wasn’t listening to the surface. He was looking at the cracks underneath.

Mom’s voice came low and fast at her ear, meant only for her.

“Don’t look at him. Don’t answer. If they ask, you were at the outer reef all week. You lost it months ago. You never found anything. You don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Beatrice froze. The water around her felt still.

Mom knew. Knew there was something Beatrice had found that morning and was hiding. Something she’d lied about, because she wanted a few hours to keep it to herself before handing it over. A few hours to pretend she wasn’t the reason everyone was in danger.

Now the guards tore through their things, tridents stabbing into mats and packs. And it was still hidden out there, wrapped in kelp and tucked under a rock. If they found out, it wouldn’t be just her who paid for it. It would be Mom. Bale. Maybe the whole post.

Guilt sat heavy in her chest. She was eighteen. Old enough to know what happened when secrets got loose. Old enough to know that “I wanted to keep it” was not a reason the king would accept.

Beatrice kept her face blank. Kept her thoughts locked down behind walls she’d built since she was a child. But her chest felt wrong, tight and thin, like something was slipping out anyway. Like panic had edges that could cut through stone.

Because Bale knew. She could see it in the way his eyes didn’t blink. And if the king made him talk, if Alpha pressed that trident to his throat, Mom and her were out of time.

A guard kicked her diving pack open. Shells scattered across the stone with sharp clicks. One rolled right past her foot.

Beatrice stared and thought one thing on repeat, like a prayer: _Don’t think it. Don’t think it. Don’t think it._

But thinking about not thinking was still thinking. And the harder she pushed the image away, the brighter it burned — silver teeth, carved handle, the way it hummed under her fingers that morning.

And in the silence, she felt it — the water shifting. Pressure changing. The moment before everything broke.

Bale’s gaze flicked away first. He looked down at the sand.

But it was too late. He’d already seen.

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