Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  “Around,” Fynn said vaguely. He kept himself angled towards Sol, pinning her against the brick wall and hiding her beneath the weight of his body. The stones cut harshly into her shoulders, pricks of pain erupting along the ridge of her spine. Sol shifted uncomfortably between the damp, eroding rock and Fynn. “I paid well for her, and you’re cutting into our time. I’ve been at sea for months.”

  Sol’s chest hollowed out at that.

  “So have I,” the hunter drawled. “When you’re finished with her—”

  “Get lost,” Fynn sneered again. He gripped Sol’s waist hard enough to hurt. “You so much as look at her, and I’ll—”

  “Stop,” Sol begged. His attention snapped to her face. “Please. Don’t give him a reason. How about we go? We can find somewhere else to do…things. I won’t—I won’t charge you anything extra.”

  The words were sour on her tongue. She was a Princess of Sonamire, not some prostitute that Fynn had paid to service him. She was the daughter of King Avedis, sister to the Crown Prince—

  She was nothing.

  Here, in Arrowbrook, Sol Rosebone was nothing but a poor rendering on wanted posters.

  A pair of boots skidding over the gravel sent Fynn whirling on his heels. He reached for the knife Sol knew was sheathed at his hip, a fierce breeze rattling the canopy above.

  “Dinah!” A man cried, waving his arms from the far end of the alley. “I found them! They went this way, towards the dock!”

  The bounty hunter made a fist, extinguishing the fire that burned brightly in his palm. The alley was thrust back into darkness, daunting shadows looming high over the walls. Sol shuddered. “Damn it,” he said, and spat onto the ground at his feet. “What’re you standin’ there for, Marv? Go after them! For Gods’ sake, you idiot. If you let them escape, I swear to Avedea, I’ll—”

  He thundered down the alley, shouting obscenities that even Fynn blanched at. But he’d forgotten them, Sol and Fynn left to their own abandonment as he searched for what may have been their doppelgangers.

  “Shit,” Fynn said, collapsing against Sol as they found themselves alone in the dark. “Shit.”

  Sol’s knees buckled. She gripped the Captain’s stolen cloak to keep herself upright. “We can’t stay here.”

  Fynn lifted his head to look at her. His eyes were nearly black in the dark, but she saw the remorse that shone there, the regret and fear he had not let the bounty hunter see. “Sol, I—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Fynn, stop.” Sol pressed her hand against his chest and gently pushed him back. “It’s all right.”

  The Captain shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not all right. What I said to them about you, what I did—”

  “It’s fine.”

  Sol needed out of this alley. She needed space. Fynn was too close, too suffocating. He had stolen the air from her lungs and had not given it back, and he did not seem to care. He was rambling, stumbling over his words in a way that was simply not like him, not like that frustrating arrogance she had come to know and grow fond of.

  Perhaps, Sol thought, the Captain was suffocating, too.

  “I’m sorry. I should have found another way. But those hunters, had they found you, had I not pretended to—”

  Sol barreled forward, blindly gripping the collar of Fynn’s cloak and pulling him to her. She rose onto her toes, her empty hand finding purchase against his shoulder, and pressed her lips against the Captain’s. Fynn gasped against her mouth, imaginably as caught off guard as Sol had been when he’d first kissed her, but he did not dare pull away.

  Fynn stepped into her, his hands sliding beneath the hood of her cloak to cup her face between his palms. His earlier desperation was gone, melting away beneath something far more curious. He toyed with the Princess’ hair, twining Sol’s braid around his index finger.

  She dropped onto the balls of her feet, her stomach a mess of roiling nerves inside her. “There,” Sol declared, her eyes darting to his mouth. His lips were quirked with a crooked smirk that Sol wanted to wipe off his face. “Now we’re even.”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow. “Even?”

  “Yes,” Sol said. “So stop apologizing.”

  He did not move, did not release her from the wall she was still pinned against, still trapped between him and the stone. “Those hunters were searching for me,” Fynn mused. “And they nearly caught us both. At least allow me to apologize for that.”

  The words were a spear through her chest, fracturing apart her ribcage and piercing her heart with a vengeance. No, she wanted to tell him, he still had nothing to apologize for. Whatever bounties Fynn might have, Sol was certain that hers were worth more, that the Princess of Sonamire was a bigger prize than the Captain.

  “If I say you’re forgiven, will you stop saying you’re sorry?”

  Fynn chuckled, resting Sol’s braid over the curve of her neck and dropping it. “Sure.”

  “Should I be apologizing, too?” Sol questioned. “I didn’t ask you before I…”

  “Kissed me?” Fynn’s smile widened to a toothy grin that chased the shadows from his eyes. “No, you don’t need to apologize. I didn’t mind.”

  Sol flushed. “Won’t your friend mind?”

  Fynn tilted his head in wonder. “Is that why you’ve been acting so strange?”

  “No,” Sol said quickly. “No, that’s not why I—I haven’t been acting strange.”

  “You avoided me all morning,” Fynn pointed out. He playfully tugged on her hair. “If I’d known that Jorel would bother you, I wouldn’t have called him to the table last night. But I didn’t think you’d care, and I didn’t peg you as the jealous type.”

  “I don’t care,” Sol grumbled. She pushed him back, pressing against his shoulders until he moved. Fynn yielded a single step. “You’re free to indulge in whoever you please. Amael told me you have friends in every port.”

  Fynn snorted. “So does Amael,” he told her. “So please don’t elevate him to a saint just because he chose not to visit her last night.”

  She could not do this with him, could not think about the sinking in her chest. His relationship with Jorel did not bother her, and neither did the knowledge that Jorel was not the only one.

  “We’re not discussing this here.” Sol shoved past him, straightening her cloak and cringing at the muddy hem. “I don’t suppose we can return these now.”

  “Not unless you want to pay for them.”

  Sol rolled up her sleeves and scoffed. “I’m not the one who stole them.”

  Fynn was the epitome of patience as Sol righted herself, adjusting the skirts of her dress and flaring her new cloak around them. “I needed to hide your face,” the Captain explained. “As I’ve told you before, there are bounties on my head that paint me as a target to the hunters. I don’t need them knowing who I travel with. You’ll rarely see me in public with the crew, and if you’re going to walk around the market with me, I’d prefer your face be covered.”

  “You were out with them last night,” Sol reminded him.

  “Last night was an exception,” Fynn said. “The hunters aren’t welcome in that tavern, and I walked in and out on my own. They’ll have never seen me with the crew.”

  “What about your friend?” Sol questioned curiously. “Aren’t you worried they might have seen you with him?”

  “Jorel can take care of himself.” Fynn combed his fingers through his hair and winced. “It’s so muggy back here. How’s my hair?”

  Sol rolled her eyes as she adjusted her hood. She could not tell him the truth, but if keeping herself hidden brought him peace, she would do it. “Frizzy.”

  Fynn groaned, patting down the curling brown locks and quickly tying it back. “Let’s go,” he muttered. “My day is officially ruined.”

  “Because a bounty hunter nearly caught us, or because now you look like a lion?”

  “Both.”

  Sol’s laughter was quiet as she looped
her arm through Fynn’s elbow. “I think I’ve seen enough of the market,” she said. “I’d like to return to the inn.”

  “That makes two of us,” Fynn said. “Especially because Dinah will be pissed when he realizes that I slipped through his fingers.”

  Sol shuddered, but did not correct him. Her—she had slipped through his fingers.

  Barely.

  The Captain led her down the alley and back into the blistering heat and colorful stands of the market. He stopped as they emerged between the bricks, tugging her close and assessing the street for threats—for the hunters. They continued when he deemed the market safe.

  Fynn cleared his throat as they rounded a corner towards the inn. “Sol?”

  She lifted her head, squinting against the sunlight as she looked at him. “What?”

  “If you wanted to kiss me, love, all you had to do was ask.”

  “Shut the Hell up, Fynnian.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SOL

  The Princess of Sonamire paced the length of her suite, from the beautifully carved door of polished mahogany, to the colorful stained-glass windows she found herself wanting to shatter. Her boots scuffed noisily over the marble, and Sol did not care if she dug up gouges in the floor.

  How could she have been so reckless—so stupid?

  The friends she had made, everything that Silas had risked for her… She had nearly thrown it all away and for the trivial desire to go shopping.

  “Sol, please,” Amael begged, sprawled across the foot of her bed. He’d been waiting for her when she returned to the inn, a smile on his face until he’d seen the fear in Sol’s eyes. He’d shooed Fynn away and ushered Sol into the room, demanding to know what his idiotic Captain had done to her. “You’ve got to calm down. Pacing never helped anyone, and you’re going to make yourself sick.”

  She whirled to him, flinging out her hands and thoroughly dismissing his concern. “Have you not been listening?” She said. “A bounty hunter almost caught us, Amael. Fynn could have gotten hurt because of me.”

  The boatswain sighed as he dangled over the edge of her bed. “You don’t know that,” he told her, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Fynn’s not as innocent as you think, Sol. He’s got bounties hanging over him, too. Those hunters could have easily been looking for him.”

  “You said it yourself,” Sol snapped. “You’ve been to this port dozens of times and have never had any trouble. Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that the one time I’m here with you, Fynn’s suddenly in danger of being caught?”

  Amael sat up with a groan. He dragged his hands over the shadowed scruff along his jaw. “We’re leaving in the morning,” he said. “And if Fynn believes we’re in danger here, he won’t risk coming back any time soon. You’re working yourself into a frenzy for nothing.”

  Sol sat down beside him. “We should leave tonight,” she insisted. “In case they come back.”

  “No one is going to leave this port before they have to,” Amael told her. “You underestimate how tired we get spending countless weeks at sea.”

  She dropped her head to his shoulder and whined, “Can’t you convince them?”

  “No can do, Princess. I’d prefer my extremities stay intact, and Riel might disembowel me if I—”

  Sol punched him in the leg hard enough that Amael yelped and her knuckles stung. “I didn’t tell you who I was so that you could address me by my title,” she sniped. “I told you so that you’d stop being angry with me.”

  “Princess has a nice ring to it, though. It’s fitting.”

  “Yes,” Sol said. “So fitting that Fynn and I almost died because of it.”

  Amael groaned again, flopping onto the bed and nearly collapsing on Draven. The direwolf scrambled out of his way and snarled half-heartedly. “If you would just tell him who you are, he would—”

  “No.”

  They would not debate this again.

  Sol had seen the way Fynn’s crew became pale-faced and shaky whenever Sonamire was mentioned in conversation. The way Arden’s eyes had burned with absolute ire the only time Sol had tried speaking with her about Valestorm. She was the daughter of their enemy, most of the crew having derived from territories long at war with Sonamire, and she would not have them look at her as such. She and her heart could not take it.

  “Fynn could help you, Sol. He would want to help you. You’re one of us now.”

  She buried her face into her palms. “At what cost?” she asked quietly. “My father sold me to Thane Grayclaw as a condition of the Treaty to end the war. You think they won’t pay to get me back?”

  Amael pulled his fingers through Draven’s fur, the direwolf inching over the mattress until his head was lying on Sol’s thigh. “You’re one girl, Sol, and as much as I love you—in a completely platonic way, of course—I can honestly say that no one is going to go to war over you. Except maybe Fynn, if you asked him to. He’d do it if it meant you would kiss him again.”

  “I don’t like you, Amael. I do not like you one bit.”

  He nudged her hip with his foot. Sol didn’t need to look at him to know Amael was grinning. “You didn’t have to go back for seconds, but you did. Admit it, Sol. You wanted to kiss the Captain.”

  “I already told you,” Sol sighed. “It was a diversion.”

  “The first time,” Amael agreed. “Not the second.”

  Sol trailed her index finger over the bridge of Draven’s nose, smiling slightly at the way his nostrils flared with annoyance. “Don’t make me regret telling you. The kiss meant nothing to both of us.”

  “Bullshit,” Amael accused. “A flirt he might be, but Fynn doesn’t kiss just anyone. Something tells me you don’t, either.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Sol muttered. “He was the first.”

  “What?” Amael jolted upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly kicking Sol in the head. “You’ve never kissed anyone else? Only Fynn?”

  A blush crept into her cheeks. Sol ducked her head and fiddled with Draven’s ears. “Only Fynn,” she confirmed. “Don’t tease me about it. My brother used to mock me all the time.”

  But he wasn’t teasing her, not really. That was surprise coloring his tone. “You’re a Princess,” Amael said, as if Sol needed the reminder. “The daughter of a king. You could have anyone you wanted, and you’ve seriously never—”

  “Stop,” Sol pleaded. “I get it. But there weren’t many people lining up at the castle’s front door to ask for my hand in courtship. Or if there were, my father had reasons to not allow it.”

  An ember of dark, bitter betrayal ignited like fire in Sol’s chest, fire like the flames Silas burned with. She swallowed it down, snuffing out the blaze before it consumed her entirely. She would not think of her father, not after the fate he’d dealt her.

  “Even if he had,” Sol continued. “Any potential suitors would have had to go through Silas, and my brother is…far pickier than I am. He would not have let me court just anyone.”

  The boatswain laughed. “You think he’d approve of Fynn?”

  “Gods, no. He’d throw him from the castle’s highest tower.”

  Sobering, Amael sprawled across the bed again, tucking his arms beneath his head and settling into the satin duvet. “I get it, you know,” he mused quietly. “Your brother wanting what was best for you. I understand why he sent you away.” He smiled grimly at Sol. “I have a little sister, too, and had she been in your situation, I can’t say I’d have done any differently.”

  Sol angled herself towards him and frowned. “What’s her name?”

  “Amara,” Amael said. “She was ten-years-old when I left.”

  Sol gently touched his arm. “I miss Silas,” she confided. “And I’ve only been gone a few weeks. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you. Have you seen her at all since you were…?”

  “Exiled?” Amael drawled dryly. Sol winced. “I saw her from a distance the last time we visited Dryu. Right before Nero lau
nched a spear at me.”

  “I thought—I thought Fynn was attacked in your place?”

  “He was,” Amael told her. “But only because he jumped in the way. My sister was there, and she was crying, and he didn’t want her to see me get hurt.”

  The Princess rolled her eyes to the stone ceiling above. “Does he always have to act so noble?”

  Amael grunted. “Always. It’s like he enjoys making the rest of us want to kill him.”

  Silence settled between them, the Princess lost to her thoughts, and when Sol looked back at Amael, his eyes were closed. His breathing evened out, his chest rising slowly as sleep took hold of him. Sol envied him, his ability to nap despite the chaos.

  And on a good day, Sol would have let Amael sleep. She would have stretched out beside him and joined her friend for his nap. But she couldn’t. She could not shake the panic still seeping into her bones, gripping her with the razor-sharp talons of the dragons she would soon see on Dryu.

  Any sensible Captain will throw you overboard if they think you’re a threat to their crew.

  Silas had been wrong. Fynn had not thrown her overboard, had not so much as even reprimanded her for lying about being a Wielder. She was likely the biggest threat his crew had ever encountered, and yet he had still taken her in.

  Frustration got the better of her as she sighed sharply. “How are they finding me?”

  Amael snored as if in answer. Sol turned to him and grasped his knee, shaking him awake. He startled. “Shit, Sol. You scared me.”

  “How are they finding me?” she asked again. “The bounty hunters. They knew I was on your ship when they attacked, and assuming it was me they were after, they picked me out of a crowd today. How?”

  He rolled onto his stomach and complained, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “No.”

  “For Gods’ sake.” Amael buried his face into an embroidered pillow. “Your hair, probably. Rosebones are known for being redheads.”

  A frown tugged at her lips. Sol reached for her braid, twisting the coppery plait around her thumb. She had not considered it before now, her hair being the tell that gave her away. “What if I cut it?”