by Alex Lidell
I watch her, waiting for the threat. She knows what I am, has to know after our magics mingled at that pillar. And my secret is the last arrow she has in her quiver.
Kyra closes her eyes. “Please,” she whispers. “I’ve nowhere else to turn to.”
My chest tightens. There is something to be said for a girl who protects a stranger, who respects the secrets of those she owes no loyalty to. And there is something to be said for her Gift too. The advantage of an empath when negotiating with the Diante could mean the difference between failure and success, and waves know I need the help.
I frown at Tam, whose face mirrors my own thoughts. Worry. Interest. A halting bit of trust. Domenic’s face stays impassive, likely unable to mix the notion of breaking the rules to bring another Gifted aboard against the possibility that doing so may be right.
“The Helix has a doctor, Kyra,” I say after heartbeats of silence come and pass. “But tell me about this head rummaging.”
Kyra rocks back on her heels, her face suddenly guarded. “I can’t read thoughts, if that’s what you want.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Catsper asks.
“Can’t,” Kyra snaps at him. For the first time, there is a bite to her words. She turns back to me. “And I won’t be a spy. People’s feelings are their business. Just as our Gifts are ours. If those are your terms, then I’ll leave you be.”
Ah, so there is the mettle that urged a powerless girl to stare down a mob. I raise my hand to calm the avalanche. “Not a spy,” I offer. “And I won’t ask you to inform on the crew to me. Only to advise me in negotiations with Diante officials.”
Kyra cocks her head, considering my words. “Is there such a post on a ship? Would the crew not despise me if I did no work during the trip itself?”
Smart girl. I nod. “Can you read and write?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “And I speak a bit of Diante too. Milan had some trade with their merchants.”
I tap my knee. Better than I thought. “Officially, you’ll be a combination of my steward, clerk, and lady-in-waiting. It will mean caring for my food and cabin and clothes, and serving at any meetings I might have. You’ll be privy to conversations and strategy, and by the time we meet the Diante, we should be able to work together smoothly. Does that sound fair?”
“Fire caller.” Catsper enunciates the words for me. “Gunpowder. Ship. Boom. Why do you think no merchant will take her?”
“Tirik. Winning.” I spit the words right back at him. “No Diante, no survival. Her flame calling is thread thin—we can keep her away from the gunpowder.” My head swivels back to Kyra. “And I imagine I need not tell you the importance of keeping your Gift a secret lest we have a mutiny on our hands?”
She nods, and I’m about to sigh with relief when an itch stirs my thoughts. I look between her and Catsper, choosing my words with care. “Are you two… I mean, is it going to be a problem that…”
“No,” says Kyra.
“Yes,” says Catsper at the same time.
Chapter 11
Nile
Kyra, Quinn and Catsper leave the suite without looking at each other, leaving the prince, Domenic, and me behind. Tamiath surveys my face, then whistles to Bear. “Shall I let him out for you?” Tam asks me politely. “I believe Rum is outside terrorizing the servants, and Bear might enjoy cowering in the shadows while Rum works.”
I touch his cheek. “Thank you.”
The prince nods and kisses the top of my head with a nonchalant possessiveness. I should be grateful that is as far as the prince goes—Aaron would likely have slugged Domenic before leaving just to remind him who my friends are. Felielle men are protective by nature, but brothers are downright irritating.
Domenic steps away from the prince’s path, keeping his gaze piously on the window until the door closes. I walk over and slide the lock into place.
Domenic’s shoulders shift to fill all the space before me. “Nile.” My name rolls off his lips, the songlike Felielle accent clenching my chest. With us finally alone, Domenic’s restraints release like a bowstring, and he has my face in his hands, gently prodding my bruised cheekbone, surveying every inch for signs of hidden injury, brushing stray locks of my red hair behind my ear. Soft, caring caresses, gentle grazes.
I snatch his wrist, lowering his hands. “I was in the same fight you were.” I find Domenic’s eyes, then let the energy his gaze releases into my blood rush through me. Rush through him as I lay my right hand flat on his taut abdomen. Low on his abdomen. “I’m all right, and I have better ideas on how to spend a stolen moment of privacy before we separate.”
Domenic swallows, cursing beneath his breath. His body tightens as if it strains all his muscles just to keep still.
“We should talk,” he starts to say, but I cut off his words with my mouth.
We’ve had enough talk. Enough play. Enough caresses that trace the curve of my hips but never touch the core. I want to be wanted, and we might not get another chance at such privacy for months. A year. However long my mission to the Diante Empire will take.
My hand slides to Domenic’s breast, the beat of his heart thumping hard enough to pulse through my flesh. Salt and brine scent fills my nose as his coiled body springs free with a muffled groan, spinning me, pinning me greedily against the bedroom wall.
Domenic presses his lips over mine, their velvet warmth echoing through my veins. Within the confines of his arms lies a whole unexplored world, one that makes my heart stop and race anew with each shared breath. My nails dig into Domenic’s shoulders, and his kiss deepens, claiming me with that predator’s possessiveness.
I press my hips into him, my hand tugging at the laces of his shirt. Failing at that, I grip the fabric, pulling open the collar. The rip of tearing cloth thunders through the room, the walls suddenly too thin by half. My heart quickens. I’ve just ripped Domenic’s shirt off. And it felt good. After months of occasional evenings stolen between duties, I’m done with slow gentleness.
The heat from his bared torso engulfs me. I break the kiss to run my hand over Domenic’s collarbone. His chest. The tattoo snaking up his sternum. This man who stalks the quarterdeck with strict propriety and unwavering power is now mine to touch and explore. My heart thumps, this time echoing low into my body. Tingling in a way that makes me squirm against Domenic’s chest.
Domenic’s hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers splaying across my scarred back.
I pull his wrist. Not off my body—storms, I never want to pull him off my body—but down toward the curve of my hips. Away from the ridges and valleys of ruined skin between my shoulders. He’d called my body beautiful, scars and all, but I’m hardly blind to a mirror’s reflection. And I want this night, our only chance, to be perfect.
“Trust me,” Domenic whispers into my temple, his hand inching back. Caressing my flesh. “I—”
“No more talking.” I press my lips into his, silencing his words.
A moment, a heartbeat of hesitation, and his body responds to mine. His mouth presses back, claiming mine hungrily. His hand slides to my pants, a calloused finger caressing the waistline. Dips down toward quickly moistening thighs.
I groan my pleasure against his mouth, pressing my hips against him when he raises his face to draw breath.
Domenic curses. His hand, already at my waistline, makes short work of the laces holding my britches. Unlike my fumblings with his shirt, Domenic’s motions are sure and experienced, and nothing tears as the knots loosen. Lithe, powerful fingers circle my belly button, slip lower. Lower. Slither back up.
I moan my protest at the retreat and hook my leg around Domenic’s thigh. An odd movement given the state of my britches, but fortunately, Domenic solves the dilemma by clasping my waist and lifting me into the air, moving us away from the wall.
My breath hitches, my heart stalling and galloping alternately as I ride his motion and wrap my legs around his hips. We land on the bed, me on my back, my legs still wrapped about him. D
omenic atop. My pants somehow brilliantly absent.
Domenic sucks in a breath and runs his hand up and down my thigh, the bulge in his own britches betraying his desire. The hand reaches beneath my shirt, cups my breast while his eyes watch my face. My eyes. I smile, and Domenic reaches to relieve me of shirt altogether.
“Don’t,” I breathe, my back flashing in my mind. A reflex. “This way. I want you this way.”
A shudder runs through him, his muscles rock hard before they push away. Not just away from my shirt, but from me.
My soul shrinks. “What’s wrong?”
Domenic sits on the bed, panting, his forearms braced against his thighs.
I rise up on my elbow, covering my naked legs with a blanket. “Why did you stop?”
“Because this is wrong,” he snaps, wincing at his voice. He blows out a long breath and continues much more gently, “This isn’t what your first time should be like.”
My face heats. “So you know better than I what my first time should be like?”
He gets up from the bed. “I do have a bit more experience, Nile, not that this fact apparently matters.”
“Storms and hail. You are this upset over my shirt? Really, Domenic?” I reach down to find my pants, feeling suddenly naked. If he doesn’t want me, we shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.
Domenic sighs and returns to the bed, sitting on its edge. “I’m not upset over your shirt. I’m not upset at all. I want you to trust me completely when we join, and you need more time.” He reaches toward me.
I pull away, moving to the opposite side of the bed. “We don’t have more time.”
Domenic rubs the heels of his hands over his face. “We do. That is what I was trying to tell you before…” He makes a vague motion to the bed. “Admiral Pyre held me back after you left. He wants me to go with you as the Helix’s second officer. He thought serving as a lieutenant under Zolan would do me good.”
The world tilts, my thoughts spinning like the needle of a compass unable to find true north. We are staying together—as together as one gets on a ship with hundreds of souls and no privacy. Happy news. Joyous. Or should be. “Are you…disappointed?”
“Of course not.” A lie.
I cross my arms.
Domenic’s mouth thins. “I imagine I am feeling very much like you did when faced with the option of joining me on the Raptor or staying in command of the Eclipse. Except you actually had a choice.”
Ah. I lean away from him. My chest is tight, and I fasten my clothing with more care than required. I do understand. To give up a ship, your ship, whether she is as small as the Eclipse or a grand three-decker, leaves a hole inside. But our situations aren’t the same. The Eclipse and Raptor are both too small for truly extended voyages like the one the Helix will take, and unlike me, Domenic will certainly get another command. The same Felielle navy that seeks any reason to deny me the quarterdeck is fawning over their discovery of Domenic.
Even if the vitalness of the Helix’s mission fails to soothe Domenic’s pride, shouldn’t the advantage of staying together tip the scales? I clear my throat and say the only thing I can. “It will be an honor to have you under my command.”
Domenic shifts his weight, a ripple of cautious confusion touching his face. His shoulders, already spread wide, open a fraction more—his habit before issuing an unpopular order or announcing punishment, as if he is steeling himself against an inevitable, invisible assault. “Zolan’s command, Nile. You heard Admiral Pyre. Your position will be honorary. Zolan will be in true command.”
The spinning compass needle inside my mind comes to a stop so abrupt, I’d stumble from the recoil if I weren’t sitting already. A deafening silence roars in my ears and spiders through my chest and gut. No. No, I couldn’t have heard him right. Admiral Pyre I can begin to understand, but surely not Domenic, who knows me, who’s seen me on the quarterdeck and standing before the enemy.
The Domenic who just this morning all but told the admiralty you couldn’t be trusted.
“You were in the same briefing I was.” Domenic’s voice is quiet, stoic. He isn’t enjoying his words, but clearly he’s not about to back down from them either. “The admiralty made its wishes known. Our duty is to execute those wishes, not contort them into ones you prefer.”
I, not we. “I will be wearing a captain’s epaulette, Domenic.” My voice is low and even enough to match his, though my heart pounds against my ribs. “And I will endeavor to live up to them.”
Domenic’s fists tighten in his lap, and he forces his hands to open. “Goddess, Nile.” His eyes pierce mine. “Enough. You are not qualified to command the Helix on a cross-continental cruise. There is no shame in it, it is just a fact.”
Heat rises to my face, so strong it’s a miracle the air itself doesn’t kindle into flame. Not qualified to command my ship. Not qualified to decide whether I’m ready to lie with a man. Not qualified to judge whether and when the risk to my body is worth taking. I stand up and reach back to braid my hair, giving my hands something to do instead of punching a bloody wall. “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Domenic.”
The bed creaks, Domenic coming to his feet as well. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths as if he’s been running. “There is no voting in the navy, and even if there was, it would be the admiralty’s vote to cast, not mine. And not yours either. Your scores failed to qualify you for the Raptor, much less the larger Helix. That’s the truth of it, Nile. You may hold yourself so above rules and orders that you see nothing wrong even with cheating, but do not expect the admiralty to agree. Or me.”
My hands fall, my pulse stalling as Domenic’s words slap my face, each one stinging more and more until I’m numb. I say nothing when Domenic finishes, looks down, takes a step toward me with his arm outstretched, as if a gentle caress can trump his words.
“There is one regulation you seem to have forgotten, Mr. Dana.” The voice is mine but feels foreign. Too cool. Too calm. Too final. “Intimate relations between officers in the same command is forbidden. You will be happy to know that we shall be keeping to that rule from this moment on. As for the details of how the Helix will be run, that is something I shall sort out with Mr. Zolan.”
Domenic’s eyes widen, and he rocks back on his heels as if struck with a rogue wave. “Nile—”
“Ma’am,” I correct. “You are dismissed.”
I hold my place until Domenic gathers his things and leaves.
Then the tears come.
Chapter 12
Kyra
Kyra left Nile’s suite through the same backdoor passage she’d entered, her mind spinning, her heart beating harder with each step she took. She’d gotten the ticket home she needed, but now, with the passage secure, the weights attached to her passage fee were chilling her blood. The princess expected Kyra to taste the Diantes’ emotions on command, to thrive aboard a naval ship filled with too many souls in too little space. But emotions were tricky and as elusive as eels, often meaning something entirely unlike what they hinted at. What Nile wanted might yet prove impossible, but if the princess was willing to take the risk, Kyra was too.
“Where are your things?” Hunter—Catsper—asked, catching up to her. “You are relocating to the inn with the rest of the Felielle crew.” A statement of fact not to be confused with a warm welcome. An order, perhaps? Was this man entitled to give Kyra orders? His personal opinion on the matter notwithstanding.
Making a mental note to ask Nile about Catsper’s relative position, Kyra turned slowly toward him. She tasted nothing of Catsper’s emotions. The last time that happened, the man had tried to slit her throat.
Stars take her, what had that man done to himself to lock his emotions so far down that Kyra tasted so little of them so often? People typically prioritized their feelings, letting some float closer to the surface and protecting others—but not everything and not all the time. Then again, typical people did not need to seek an abandoned ridge in the middle of a cold nig
ht before permitting themselves to feel pain.
With the fighting over, Catsper held an arm close to his side. The Spade commander must have cracked some ribs, if not broken them outright. And that was before Catsper threw himself into the middle of a brawl, taking blows as gladly as doling them out. As if he’d been seeking a beating as well as a fight.
Kyra’s fingertips tingled, wanting to brush over the abused flesh and draw away the heat. The chill wouldn’t knit the bones together, but it would help the swelling and pain. Then again, Kyra was certain that the man neither deserved nor wanted the pain gone. The question was why? If Kyra was to be Nile’s steward, to take care of the princess, that duty started now. “Why did you lie to Nile about Spardic Command releasing you?”
Catsper’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t.”
“Because you aren’t a Spade anymore?” She wrapped her hands around herself. Catsper could snap her neck in two easily enough, but she didn’t think he’d do it here. “What did you do that they kicked you out?”
Catsper cocked his head, thoughts racing through his eyes. Kyra’s mouth filled with the too-familiar tang of hate and fury, though Catsper’s calm posture gave nothing away. “Since you are so adept at scouting my private life, write your own narration. And while you are at it, fetch your own things as well.”
Waking up at the inn the following morning, Kyra had to blink to orient herself. After weeks of living in a cavern, the tiny room felt skintight. The neighbor to her right was coughing again, and, judging by the smell, the servants scurrying down the hallways carried full chamber pots. It would be worse on a ship. Weeks, months, with no escape. But at least there would be a ship now. And home at the other end of its voyage.
A parcel awaited Kyra just outside her door. She opened it to find a pair of loose trousers and several shirts, along with a note from Nile about possibly finding these clothes more comfortable at sea. Kyra ran her hands over her dress. She’d washed it yesterday, and the yellow fabric was bright again, the stains nearly gone. She’d stay wearing it, if such was permitted.