Shimmering Sands the hawser rolls, the vessel’s whole and christ, it’s thin

It did not take long before Rannveig found his way into the swell. He was always quick to give way to his desires. Some part of him felt envy for that freedom. The eldest Mayfair-Cairn was not like his two younger brothers. There was something else in him that did not know how to act unless he knew it would benefit him. Everything was a calculation. It needed to be for them to succeed. Still, that familiar prick of resentment touched the back of his chest.

There was nothing about him that was masochistic.

Ford was a skilled sociopath, and he was perfecting his art with every passing day.

Halting his looming stride, the inkhound felt the water lap against his ankles and he shuddered against the touch. Rannveig was already sunken to his chest, and then further until his head bobbed about in the water with each motion of his limbs. Ford drew closer, feeling the tug of the ocean as it beckoned him deeper into its depths. The water had moved up his limbs until it brushed against his chest and underbelly. He turned his attention to his brother and watched.