The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea

by Katherine Quinn

  “I suppose fresh air would do me good,” she said, even though she didn’t plan on being around long enough to take a tour with him. Her eyes flickered to the knife resting beside her plate. The silver glinted in the quivering light of the sconces.

  “Is it a large island?” She angled her body so it concealed her hand as she reached for the cutlery. “My view faces the sea, so I’m unable to take in the city,” she added.

  Guilt lay heavy in her chest as she distracted Adrian, engaging him in conversation while she made her hasty grab. In different circumstances, she could imagine them getting along quite nicely.

  She gripped the cool metal and dragged the knife below the tablecloth, slowly sliding the blade up her fitted sleeve.

  It wasn’t extraordinarily sharp, but it was something with a pointed tip, and if she put enough force behind it, damage could be done. At this rate, it was better than nothing.

  “Azantian is larger than it looks.” Pride brightened Adrian’s features. “I think you’ll be surprised by what you see. Our markets are like none in the world.”

  “I look forward to it then,” she said, thankful when Adrian’s focus was directed to Shade a moment later.

  She may have lost Adrian’s attention, but she’d gained another’s.

  Lifting her gaze, Margrete locked eyes with the King of Azantian. Bash boldly drank her in as he lounged in his seat, the sharpness of his stare unnerving. Her pulse raced. She felt the chill of her stolen knife acutely, fearful that the cunning king had caught her in the act. But his fingers only idly tapped the arms of his chair, and his gaze lay solely on her eyes. It might as well have been only the two of them in that room.

  Just as he so brazenly inspected her, Margrete decided to delve beyond the mask he wore, past the facade of cunning pirate and stoic king. It might’ve been the first time she really looked at him, and what she saw sent shivers down her spine. She’d recognize that look anywhere—it was what her mirror reflected every morning.

  Sorrow. The kind that rooted deep within your bones.

  Bash was the first to glance away, and a part of her felt like she’d won.

  Margrete smiled, her grin flourishing as the knife pressed against her skin. She almost regretted that she wouldn’t be there to see Bash’s face when he discovered her missing the following morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Margrete

  Bash escorted Margrete back to her room. He’d remained in silence for most of the dinner, allowing the others to fill the void with their own noise. She’d done much the same, occasionally conversing with Adrian, who was clueless to what was concealed beneath her flowing sleeve.

  Margrete rushed up the remaining steps. The hallway leading to her room seemed longer than she remembered. Eyeing it wearily, she continued her punishing pace, forcing the pirate to keep up with her long strides. Even if he were these people’s leader, he would continue to be a rogue pirate in her mind. That title suited him more than king.

  The misty entryway neared, and Margrete halted inches from the churning haze. She kept her back to the king as she waited for him to open the portal and allow her access. The seconds ticked by painfully, but Bash never raised his hand.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” she barked, keeping her face forward. All she wanted was to retreat to the privacy of her chambers and prepare for the night ahead. The more she thought about scaling the damned palace, the more her pulse raced. “Open it,” she commanded, spinning on her heels and finally giving him her attention. The bastard was leaning against the wall, a devilish smirk lifting his lips as though he found her amusing.

  She wanted to smack him.

  He shoved off the wall, his long limbs carrying him forward until he was inches away, his head tilted down to look into her eyes. That cursed smirk never left his lips. Lips that she found herself staring at.

  “I seem to have found myself distracted. You’re rather quick for someone so small.” He raised a mocking brow. “My sincerest apologies.”

  Something told her he was far from sorry. “Fine. Just do…”—she waved her hand in the air—“whatever it is you do and open the damned door. I find myself preferring solitude to your company.” She shot him a saccharine smile.

  He crossed his arms against his chest, and his sea star tattoo slid into view from beneath his sleeve. “I’ve been told I’m quite charming. Though I must say, I don’t often find myself in such a position.”

  “Where women are eager to run from you, that is?” she asked sweetly.

  “They’re usually eager for other things, princess.” Bash leaned down to whisper into her ear. She shivered as his breath caressed her skin. “Perhaps I could show you.”

  For a moment, she froze, lost to the sensations running up and down her spine. The flutters in her belly. How her heart thumped savagely in her chest.

  She regained her senses quickly.

  “As if I’d ever be with a man like you. You son of a—” She released a string of colorful curses at him, each more vivid than the last. Her words would’ve made even the hardiest of sailors blush.

  “Ah, that mouth is so very wicked,” he taunted, retreating a few steps back when she raised her hand. He missed her slap by a mere inch.

  Undeterred, Margrete reached out for him again, craving nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smile off his handsome face. Just one blow, she prayed, knowing full-well how satisfied she would be if her strike landed.

  “My mouth is not what you should be worried about, pirate.” She thought of the knife hidden in her sleeve. If she used it now, when Bash was on his guard, she’d end up weaponless and back where she started.

  Bash grabbed her wrist before her palm struck his face. His fingers curled around the delicate bone, heat blossoming in her chest at the contact.

  His gaze turned dark. “Believe me, I’m more worried about what’s in here”—he tapped her forehead before she could swat him away—“than what comes from those beautiful lips of yours.”

  She stilled, the compliment searing her cheeks.

  His grip around her wrist tightened, and Margrete’s heart thudded as cold metal pressed against her skin. The knife had slipped in the struggle, the blade held in place only by the cuff of her sleeve. As if only now realizing what he’d said, Bash unfurled his fingers and took a generous step back.

  Margrete released a relieved sigh, the sting of the blade still fresh in her mind. Thankfully, it wasn’t sharp enough to inflict much damage where it rested, though she hoped it would be enough to drive through an enemy if need be.

  “You know,” he said, gaze lingering on her form, “you can actually learn how to fight while you’re here if you’d like to not be so…defenseless.”

  Margrete surmised he was going to use a different word but decided that ‘defenseless’ was less insulting. She might have hated him at this moment, but she found her heart pumping faster at his unexpected offer.

  “You want me to learn how to…fight?” Gods, how many times had she begged her father for training? Bash’s proposal felt too good to not be a trap.

  “Of course.” He snorted, like it was obvious.

  “And why exactly would you teach your prisoner how to defend herself?” She narrowed her eyes, feeling wicked. “Not a very clever king, are you?”

  Bash leaned against the doorway, those stupidly full lips lifting at one corner. “It’s not you I fear, Margrete Wood. I also don’t fear you escaping. You’re surrounded by punishing seas and waiting guards who have instructions on what to do if you set even one foot outside this palace. But—” He held up a long finger. “I’ve a feeling you have battles of your own back in Prias, and if I don’t get the chance to kill your father, I’d like to know that perhaps I gave his daughter the ability to do it for me.”

  All the air left Margrete’s lungs.

  “Does that shock you?” Bash pushed off the wall and sauntered closer. “I’d very much like to see the man dead by any means, and, from what I’ve g
athered, you wouldn’t mind if you were free of him yourself.”

  A world without the captain. How many times had she envisioned that? When the nights were long and bruises painted her skin, she’d think of what would happen if he were to drink too much, if he were to accidentally fall to his death from the top of the keep. When he’d lock her inside the box, she would picture one of his enemies swooping into the keep and slicing his throat. Or that maybe he would simply choke on his dinner.

  Yes, Margrete had conceived every grisly scenario in which her father could die, but even after everything he’d put her through, she still felt wrong for thinking such things.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Bash cocked his head to the side, auburn hair falling into his eyes. Eyes that were shrewd and calculating, devouring the emotions she was sure danced openly across her face.

  When she went to protest such an accusation, the argument died on her tongue. Her silence said more than any words ever could.

  “You shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to be free of a man like him,” Bash said, his tone softening. “Believe me, I’ve witnessed his cruelty firsthand as a boy, when I was unable to defend myself. Too weak to fight back.” His gaze flickered to his boots. “Since that day, I’ve worked hard never to be defenseless again. Especially if the moment comes when I can redeem myself.”

  Pressure weighed upon her chest, increasing with every exhale. “I don’t know if I’m capable of…killing,” she finally said, her voice a whisper of a thing.

  Bash once again grabbed her hand, his grip firm. “You may not want to kill, Margrete, but believe me, in this world, you should know how.”

  Ignoring the way her hand tingled in his grasp, Margrete met his stare. “You said you saw his cruelty firsthand as a boy.” The fingers wrapped around hers tightened. “When was this?”

  Bash’s jaw tensed. “Now is not the time to discuss that,” he bit out, though Margrete knew full well he was only deflecting. Again. She imagined whatever Bash had endured at her father’s hand must’ve scarred him deeply.

  She understood his pain all too well.

  “I’m sorry for what he did. That he…hurt you.” Hurt seemed like such a small word.

  Her eyes fell to where Bash was still gripping her hand, which was turning a shade of purple. Following her gaze, Bash let out a curse and released her, apologizing beneath his breath.

  “I’ll send Adrian by tomorrow. He’s highly skilled and a good teacher. The best.” Bash straightened before running a hand through his hair. She noticed how his fingers trembled.

  He was sending someone to train her, to teach her how to fight back, a skill she could certainly use when it came time to take Birdie from the keep. The offer made it tempting to stay at least one more night, but Margrete couldn’t be swayed by promises, not when she’d known only empty ones in the past.

  “Thank you,” she said, dipping her chin.

  The tension in Bash’s jaw eased and his sly smirk reappeared. This was the smile he fashioned when he was out of sorts.

  She wondered how he would feel if he knew just how easily she read him.

  “It will be me thanking you, if you somehow manage to kill the bastard before I get my hands on him. Even if you don’t, no one should be rendered defenseless. Only small men fear a woman who knows her own mind and wields a sword. Who fights back. Because those women…Well, they have the power to send men to their knees.”

  Warmth spread through her chest. He truly meant those words.

  “Goodnight, princess.” Bash tilted his head toward the portal just as a guard approached from the end of the hall. Tall and muscular, the guard strode down the corridor, situating himself outside her door. But his presence wouldn’t be of concern, not when she’d already set her mind on a far more precarious exit.

  “Goodnight, pirate,” Margrete replied, hoping this was goodbye. Narrowing her eyes, she watched as Bash raised his hand and opened the portal, the mist clearing.

  She could feel Bash’s smirk as she walked through the swirling haze, and for some reason, she smiled, too.

  But her smile didn’t last for long. Not when she had work to do, and death to cheat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Margrete

  The moment she was through the portal, the churning mists settling into a solid shade of ash, Margrete considered her mission. The cool metal of the dinner knife she swiped from the table pressed against her forearm, hidden by the flowing sleeves of her tunic.

  Margrete waited another hour—just to be certain she was left alone for the evening—before she carried out the next step. With her weapon secure, she went to the armoire and yanked a midnight-colored cloak from its hanger. She wrapped it about her shoulders, tied the strings into a knot, and drew the hood over her head.

  She wasn’t thrilled about scaling a building, as the last thing she’d climbed was a tree when she was twelve. But she had to try. Waiting around for Bash to hand her back to her father was simply not an option.

  The balcony doors creaked on their hinges, and the night air tickled her skin and ruffled the hair beneath her hood. It was heavenly outside—the stars twinkling against an onyx canvas, the moon sitting high in the clouds. Margrete took this as a good omen.

  Inching to the railing, Margrete peered down, and down...and down. The palace had to be as high as her father’s keep, if not more so.

  Ice shot through her veins. One slip and—

  No. Don’t you dare think like that.

  She would make it down to the landing and then across to the balcony. After that, she would steal away in the shadows and venture down to the shore where she’d procure—well, steal—a small fishing vessel, then sail as far away from Azantian and her father as possible.

  With determined breaths, Margrete squeezed the railing. She hoisted herself up and perched atop the banister, the sea at her feet.

  Don’t look down, don’t look down—

  She looked down.

  A wave of nausea sent the night violently spinning, the stars a blur of white. Swallowing her rising bile, she lowered herself to the other side of the railing, then crouched and grabbed hold of the bottom posts, slowly easing her right leg to drop. Her arms protested, as did her resolve, but she forced herself to let her left leg fall. Now she was hanging in the air, only her sweat-slicked hands keeping her from plummeting to her death.

  You can do this. The words played in her head, a mantra. The balcony directly below hers was within reach. All she had to do was lower her legs a little bit farther, and she’d be standing on the banister.

  Just as she was about to drop deeper into the abyss, her heart racing and her palms growing increasingly sweaty, reverberating thunder shook the palace walls. Lovely, she seethed, her feet thrashing wildly. She let out a growl of frustration, flailing as she angled herself to where she knew the balcony’s ledge to be.

  The first crystal droplet splashed across her cheek, followed by a second on the tip of her nose.

  Don’t you start now, she threatened, knowing her chances of scaling to the terrace would be impossible if it rained.

  Her chest tightened with unbridled panic. No. That wasn’t a possibility she could face, not when she didn’t have the strength to pull herself back up to her rooms. The only way out of this mess was down. Rain or no rain.

  As more taunting droplets fell, soaking her hands and trickling down her forearms, Margrete’s already weak grip loosened. She would have to swing down now.

  Tilting her head to the rain, Margrete cursed herself for such an idiotic plan. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as the rain battered her relentlessly, a flood of hopelessness easing her grip on the railing above her head.

  With a hasty glance over her shoulder, one that sent her heart pummeling into her stomach, Margrete noted that the balcony’s ledge was close, tauntingly so, and all she had to do was make it another foot or so before she would be able to stand firmly on the rail.

  A bolt of lightning pierced the deep charcoal
skies, electricity coursing through the air. As the ensuing thunder rattled the palace walls, Margrete let out a howl, her right hand slipping free.

  She screamed as she floundered, her left hand losing its hold as the rain came down harder. It drenched her clothing and plastered her hair to her temples and cheeks, making it difficult to see. The blade she concealed sliced at her forearm, sending pain lancing across her skin.

  When the next bolt of lightning illuminated the night, a streak of fire and silver, Margrete’s left hand slipped—

  She was falling, a trapped scream on her open lips.

  Just as her feet collided with the wood of the ledge below, just as she felt her body bend and lean backward, away from the safety of solid ground, a hand wrapped around her ankle while another hand fisted the material of her damp shirt.

  This time, her scream released into the storm, a shrill cry of desperation. Yet those same phantom hands held her upright while her right foot still swung wildly for purchase.

  Then she was falling again, tumbling forward and onto the balcony below...directly into a solid wall of muscle.

  Powerful arms enfolded her quivering frame, strong and reassuring, crushing her firmly against a hammering heart. The rain lost its biting edge, the lightning dimming to muted flickers, the deafening thunder a distant, vibrating growl.

  No.

  That wasn’t the thunder.

  The rumble came from the chest pressed against her—a very bare, tattooed chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Margrete

  Bash grabbed Margrete’s wrist, hauling her inside and out of the rain. He spun to face her, his wet, auburn hair framing his gratingly handsome face.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he said, dragging her against him as he stared down into her eyes. His voice was deep and seductive, yet his irritation was clear. “If you wanted to come to my chambers, Miss Wood, believe me, all you had to do was ask.”