All Chapters of Lost Between the Tides: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

(Morgan's POV)Thirst woke me, my throat so dry I was almost convinced I was going to choke on the air I was breathing. My tongue felt dry and thick, and there was only one thought reverberating through my throbbing skull... water.I sat up and looked around the small, empty cabin. No Flynn. No Owen. No Oliver. No stutterer. No one to ask to bring me a drink.Fuck.With no other options, I pulled myself to my feet, my body aching all the while, then stumbled toward the jug on the bureau, using the table for support as soon as I was close enough.There was no cup. Not that I could see, at least. And I was too desperate to start digging through cupboards and drawers to find one, so without a second thought, I brought the half-filled jug to my lips and drank.It was awkward and clumsy, the ceramic jug too tall and too cumbersome, but I didn't care. All I wanted was what was inside it.The second it hit my lips, I felt instant relief. It was cool and wet and delicious, and I drank. Drank

(Morgan's POV)Flynn's words had been more mocking than curious, but maybe it was a start. At least he hadn't picked me up and thrown me overboard. Maybe if I could just show him, that might make him believe me. Might make him understand.I pulled my phone out of my pocket again and turned it on.Once again, he watched it curiously. It definitely held some kind of intrigue for him, so I leaned into it."This is my phone," I explained, waiting for it to start up. "Everyone has one in 2025—"His eyes snapped back up to me. "2025?!" he exclaimed, seemingly horrified.I gulped and managed a nod, but pressed on, taking a few more steps toward him to show him the phone.He fixed his eyes back on the screen when the startup jingle played, and the phone blazed to life. The homescreen was a picture of the beach... one I'd taken during my cousin's wedding. It was beautiful. Like, Instagram-worthy. Of course, I had posted it to Instagram..."Where’s that noise comin’ from?" he asked, still stari

(Morgan's POV)I spent the majority of my day resting in my crappy straw bed. There wasn't really much else to do. I considered reading. Clarissa’s Folly had been so tempting, and I was dying to know what kind of book "A Lady of Quality" might write, but the thankfully receding ache in my head told me not to. Not yet, at least. Maybe a couple more days of rest before I pushed myself to focus on something like that.Rest was what I needed now anyway, and that was easy enough. My little spat with Flynn earlier had been both mentally and physically taxing. A huge waste of my energy, seeing as it only seemed to inflame the situation, but I guess at least I had tried.I had come to the decision that planning some kind of escape right now was pointless. I had no clue where I was, I was still a toasted marshmallow, and this ship, however shitty it and its occupants seemed to be, was safe. There was no immediate urgency for me to leave. I wasn't in any kind of immediate danger. So, for now, r

(Morgan's POV)Being at port was much the same as being at sea. But there was less movement, less noise... most of the time, at least, and a whole lot of me being confined to Flynn's quarters.He and Owen had definitely been up to something before they had headed ashore. I lay there on my bed, pretending to be asleep, while Flynn and Owen grumbled things in hushed voices, like, "We'll say she wasn't flyin' a flag", and "They fired the first cannon" while Owen scribbled it all down.The surgeon, Old Mr Finch, as Oliver called him, came to visit me before leaving the ship too, and he seemed pleased with my recovery. He inspected my stitches, asked me what color my urine was, which was mildly mortifying, but I guess he had medical reason to know, and then he proceeded to smear some revolting Hogwarts potion over my burned skin that he said was a mixture of beeswax and olive oil. The shit smelled like fucking months-old pan drippings, and it took everything I had not to rub it off of my s

(Morgan's POV)I'd seen him before, but I couldn't recall where. Probably that day I'd spent dying on the deck, drifting in and out of consciousness while everyone just worked around me like I wasn't even there.He was leaning against the railing, back to the sea, idly picking at his nails with a knife. But when he saw me, a mischievous smirk crept onto his face."Well, would ye look at that," he drawled, slipping the knife back into a worn leather sheath on his belt with an easy, practiced motion.Oh, great... Another cocky fucking Irishman. Was there a factory churning them out below deck or something?I took a step back, retreating deeper into Flynn's cabin as I clutched the linen sheet around me more tightly. God forbid this crusty bastard saw my bare shoulders as some sort of invitation."I'm looking for Oliver," I said, keeping my tone neutral but firm. I was aiming for polite disinterest, but I think I landed somewhere between rude waiter and irritated parent of a toddler.But