Nicole sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, her fingers working delicately through a strip of ivory lace. Stitch, pull. Stitch, pull.
A dozen shining needles lay around her like silver soldiers, arranged on a square of folded cloth. The rocking of the ship had faded into background noise, as familiar now as breath. It wasn’t the sea that troubled her anymore.
It was the man waiting at the end of this voyage.
Her husband.
A stranger.
She whispered as she worked, lips barely moving. “Obey him. Please him. Do not anger him.”
The phrases the sisters drilled into her rang louder than the creaking beams above.
Then—
A knock.
No. Not a knock.
The door creaked open.
Nicole looked up sharply.
The porter stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a crooked smile, arms folded across his chest. The one whose eyes had wandered like fingers.
Her chest tightened. “Sir?”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, stepping in as though he belonged there. “Just came to check if the little bride needed anything.”
Nicole forced a polite nod. “Thank you, I’m quite alright.”
His gaze swept lazily around the room before settling on her bare feet. “Pretty. Didn’t expect feet like that on a convent girl.”
She shifted slightly, curling her toes under the hem of her skirt.
“Do you… Need something?” she asked, voice thinner now.
He stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
“No need to be shy,” he said, his tone mockingly gentle as he walked closer. “You’re a gift, aren’t you? All wrapped up for some lucky nobleman.” He tilted his head. “Though if you ask me… he’s not the one who deserves the first taste.”
Her heart stopped. Her hand went still over the lace.
“I think you should leave right now,” she said quickly.
“But I don’t want to.”
She stood up now, too fast. “You can’t be here.”
“Oh, I can.” He moved toward her. “And there's no one here to stop me.”
Nicole backed into the corner of the room, heart thudding in her ears.
The porter crouched near the bed, eyeing the lace and the needles. “Is this what you girls do all day? Sew pretty things and pray someone comes to touch you?”
His hand reached for the hem of her skirt.
She jerked back, nearly tripping over the bedframe.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He smirked. “Don’t what? You don’t even know what I’m about to do.”
But she did.
Sister Agnes’s voice echoed in her head, sharp as a lash:
"Only your husband may raise your dress. If another man does… You will burn in hell."
Nicole’s hands trembled. Her mouth opened to scream—but no sound came out.
Then the porter pulled a small knife from his coat. The blade flicked open with a soft click.
“I’ll make it quick,” he muttered. “You’ll thank me later. At least he won’t toss you aside once I’m done.”
Nicole’s gaze shot to the needles on the bed.
She didn’t think.
She moved.
She grabbed a fistful—sharp, cold, gleaming—and lunged just as he bent toward her.
The first needle jabbed into the side of his neck. He roared. Blood spurted.
Another into his cheek. Another in his chest. She was crying now—wild, guttural sounds as she stabbed blindly.
He clawed at her, but she was faster. Fiercer.
One needle pierced his throat. Another struck his eye.
He fell backward, crashing into the wooden chest beside the bed, then collapsed onto the floor. His body spasmed once. Then went still.
Nicole froze.
Her knees buckled. She dropped the remaining needles, her hands slick with blood. Her breath came in gasps.
Then she saw it.
Blood. So much of it.
It had splattered her skirt—seeping through the thin linen—right between her thighs.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, no, no…”
But the blood didn’t listen. Neither would anyone else.
She looked at the porter’s body. The knife lay near his outstretched hand. His eyes were wide, unseeing.
She backed away from him, stumbling until her back hit the far wall.
Her whole body trembled.
She sat on the floor, trying to gather her thoughts, her sanity, anything—but all she could hear was the voice of the Mother Abbess:
“Only your husband may lift your dress. If another man does… your soul will be cast into the fire.”
And yet—
She had survived. She had fought.
Did that mean she had sinned?
Or have been saved?
The door burst open.
The captain stood there, flanked by two crewmen. His eyes went from Nicole to the body to the blood-soaked floor.
Nicole looked up at him, her face pale, her lips trembling.
But the damage had already been done.
Whatever truth she might speak, no one would see the innocent girl who had fought to stay pure.
