The mess hall stinks of damp bread and something boiled too long. I take one step inside and noise slams into me—voices, trays, laughter sharp as teeth. There’s nowhere safe to stand, nowhere that isn’t claimed already.
I freeze just a second at the threshold, shoulders hunched, scoping out a route that won’t get me trampled or draw attention. I scan the chaos for any sign of Jax. Nothing.
Time to move.
I square my stance, drop my chin, and force my feet forward, making the borrowed sailor’s uniform hang off me like it belongs here even though it sets me apart like a bruised apple in an offering basket to Valestus. Still, it covers what needs covering.
I keep my gaze locked low and focus on keeping my walk steady and solid. Every step pulls eyes, some sizing me up, most skimming past,
