Pleasure ripped through him in a violent wave. He buried his face in his pillow to muffle the moan he couldn’t hold back.
Gods. All he had managed to do was torture himself further. Because now he desperately needed the real thing.
“Fuck,” he cursed, slipping out of bed to clean himself. After, he sat in his chair by the fire, resting his head in his hands. His breathing slowed, and his heartbeat gradually eased into a normal rhythm. Control was simply not possible when it came to her—and for some reason, Bash didn’t fear the loss of restraint. Not when it felt so damn good.
Too good.
Abandoning the fire and his wicked thoughts, he dressed in a rush, yanking on his boots and sliding a trembling hand through his hair. He glanced to his nightstand, at the book of fables his father had gifted him on his sixth birthday. For the past few days, he’d sent Margrete his favorite books along with her breakfast. After he found the old adventure novel, he circled her favored word for him—pirate—and sent it to her in hopes he’d get a reaction, though he wasn’t sure at the time why he craved such a thing.
But of course, when she ignored him at dinner that evening, he grew more determined.
So Bash delivered another the next morning, this one more…personal. When she smiled at him that night, he’d gone straight to the library after dinner to select more. And like a fool, he found he wanted nothing more than to see if a smile graced her full lips when she read the notes he scribbled on the pages. If they made her laugh.
Without another thought, Bash grabbed the book from the table, tucking it below his arm. He was restless, anxious to see her again, and when he walked into the hallway outside his room, the guards eyed him with curious expressions.
Of course, they quickly averted their stares when he shot them a look of warning. He was still a king, and he didn’t want his men witnessing him acting like a schoolboy.
Steeling his spine, he climbed the stairs and marched down the corridor to her room. With a nod to the guard, he placed his palm on the portal and inhaled a sharp breath as it cleared.
Her scent was everywhere. Floral. Innocent. Wild. She smelled of a summer’s day by the water, and he breathed her in as he arranged the book of fables on her dresser for her to discover later.
He turned toward the bed with a quickening pulse. Margrete was sound asleep, curled up on her side, her deep chocolate hair splayed across her pillow. He wanted to run his fingers through the strands, to feel the silken smoothness of them. He pictured her hair wrapped around his fist, her back arched—
Bash shook his head, cursing himself. He had to stop this madness before it consumed him.
Swallowing down his insatiable need for her, he took a seat beside her tiny frame, the mattress groaning beneath his weight. Gods, she was beautiful.
Focus, he chided, hesitantly raising his hand. It fell on her bare arm, the smooth skin warm beneath his calloused hand.
He gave her a gentle shake. Bash had come here for a reason. He told her he would share his secrets, and last night he decided that she should know what her father stole. What they were up against. Ultimately, he was starting to…trust her.
The thought sent his heart plummeting.
“Bash?” Margrete’s lids fluttered open, and he quickly withdrew his hand. “What are you doing here?” She sat up, wearing nothing but a flimsy ivory nightgown. His eyes drifted to the clear outline of her body. The thin material did little to hide the most tender parts of her—curves he wanted to map with his hands, his mouth, his...
He clenched his fists and forced himself to meet her sleepy stare.
Margrete’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink, which was almost humorous given what they’d done last night.
Yanking the sheet above her chest, she lifted her hazel eyes to his.
“I wanted to show you something today. Explain some things.” He knew that was all she wanted—answers. “Dress, and I’ll return for you in twenty minutes.”
Bash stood and turned for the portal before she could utter a word in reply, not trusting himself around her when she looked like that, all soft and warm and inviting.
He cursed, marching past his guard, venturing to the open terrace below her chambers. It was the same one she nearly killed herself trying to get to. Gods, he wanted to wring her neck for her recklessness. He also hated how much it impressed him.
Bash let out a weary groan, propping his elbows on the railing. He listened to the song of the sea, trying and failing miserably to clear his mind. He must be under some sort of enchantment. That was the only explanation for this insanity. This hunger.
When twenty painstakingly slow minutes had come and gone, he pulled himself from the railing. His blood roared in his ears as he walked back to her chambers.
When he entered, she was dressed and sitting on her bed, cradling her injured palm as she looked to the balcony and the sea beyond. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and he found he missed the edge in her tone whenever she battled with him.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice coming out gruffer than he intended.
She turned to face him and nodded. Her steps were light as she walked to his side, following him through the portal and down the corridor to the stairs. Every now and then on their silent trek to the main floor, Bash stole glimpses of her, wondering if she was thinking about last night. If she’d lain awake in bed as he had.
“This is Azantian’s library,” he told her before pushing open a set of double doors off the main hall. Instantly, they were assaulted by a breeze of dust and the potent smell of old books. “And within these walls lay all the answers you’ve been searching for.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bash
Bash turned to Margrete, watching her reaction as she took in the room with wide eyes.
“It’s…”
“Creepy, eerie, sinister—take your pick.” He scanned the shelves of overflowing books and scrolls.
The entire room was comprised of dark stone, and the wooden shelves teemed with thick tomes and scrolls. Grim statues lined the space, depictions of nymeras and sea beasts keeping watch over the knowledge that Azantian held sacred.
Margrete stood before him, and Bash couldn’t stop himself from closing the gap, his mind ignoring all logic and sense. Her hair tickled his cheeks as he leaned in to whisper into her ear.
“Are you ready?” he asked, enjoying the way she shivered in response.
He slid by her and sauntered to a stack of books lining the western wall. Behind him, Margrete let out a trembling breath, but she followed.
“These are the oldest books on our island. Likely the oldest books in the world.” He trailed a reverent finger across the bottom of the shelf. “Our history lies within these pages. The birth of the sea itself.”
Margrete reached out, her delicate fingers brushing across the cracked leather. A smile curved her lips, and Bash surmised she could spend all day trapped in this room. She had a clever mind and a sharp tongue, and he couldn’t decide which one he liked more.
“And this...”—Bash cleared his throat and lowered to a knee, grabbing hold of a dense green tome—“...is what may help you understand why I can’t stop until the captain returns what he stole.” He handed her the book, a cloud of dust fluttering in the air. “Sit.” Bash pulled out a chair beside one of the mismatched tables littered with texts and parchment.
She took a seat, eyeing him warily. He’d give anything to know what she was thinking. Instead of asking, though, he opened the cover and flipped through the pages until he found the chapter he sought.
“Here.” He angled the book and tapped his finger on the bold lettering marking the top of the page.
She lifted her gaze to his before turning her attention to the book, grasping the edges and bringing it closer. “Stratias,” she read aloud.
“It means balance,” he explained, and she read on.
The sea was born from the Goddess of the Wind and Sky’s tears. It was said that Surria let two
tears fall, flooding the barren earth and creating the sea. Twin boys rose from the waters, gods destined to one day rule the home of their birth. But while brothers, the boys grew into men with different ambitions.
Darius longed for power, to become the greatest god amongst the divine. To be worshipped and revered. Malum didn’t possess the same desires, content to share the sea with the mortals and uphold the ideals of justice and neutrality.
Margrete paused, brows furrowed. “There were two gods of the sea?”
Bash knew most humans only knew of one—Malum. “Yes,” he answered. “But you’re not at the important part yet.” He dropped his eyes to the text, and she continued reading.
After thousands of years, Darius, the god who longed for dominance, grew impatient and decided to take matters into his own hands. Fashioning creatures of teeth and claws, nightmarish beasts born from the depths, he sicced his abominations upon his unassuming brother, thirsting for total control over the waters.
But his brother was no fool, and not without power himself. Malum created his own beasts, ones larger and mightier than those of his kin. These creatures tore apart Darius’s horde, forcing him to surrender to the mercy of his twin. But the monsters who triumphed escaped, fleeing across the realm where they wreaked havoc and ended the lives of many.
Their mother, watching from the heavens, had seen her two sons cause enough bloodshed and decided to intervene. Before they could ruin the waters she adored, Surria condemned both her children to harsh fates. Darius, she imprisoned within the body of a human. He would be stripped of his powers for a thousand years, doomed to walk among the mortals he nearly destroyed.
But before Surria could cast her punishment on Malum, he set off to slay his beasts himself. When the time came to make the killing blows, however, Malum hesitated. Unable to kill his children, he fashioned the island of Azantian, where his monsters would remain secured behind gates he forged from his own bone shards.
Malum entrusted the woman he loved, a mere mortal, to watch over his creations. As a safeguard to protect his lover and their descendants, Malum gifted them with a piece of his divinity—his own beating heart. Removing it from his chest, he placed it upon the throne of Azantian, gifting his offspring with enough of his power to maintain the creatures should his forged gates ever fail. At the time, Malum didn’t consider the consequences of cutting out his heart, how it might drain him as time progressed. He, like most gods, was arrogant, though Malum would soon come to realize the error of his ways.
When Surria learned what her son had done, she doomed Malum to a thousand-year sleep. His coffin would be the Axilya mountain ravines, thirty-five-thousand leagues beneath the seas.
Margrete glanced up from the pages, questions brightening her eyes. “Wait. So the first Azantians were children of Malum and his lover? Does that mean...”
“There is only one Azantian still living who is of Malum’s original bloodline, and you’ve met him already, though he isn’t one for many words.”
“Ortum,” she whispered.
Bash nodded. “Ortum is the last of Malum’s descendants. The last of the original Azantians. Ortum realized that the barriers needed to rise in order to protect the world, that the gates Malum forged for his beasts were weakening, and that we no longer possessed the Heart to keep them confined. We were only recently able to leave these shores and hunt down Malum’s essence because Ortum cannot maintain a tight hold on his magic. Keeping the beasts in place drains him with every passing day.”
Her eyes drifted back to the text, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she processed it all. “If Malum wakes and returns after his thousand-year sentence has ended, then won’t he simply guard his children? Protect the realm from them?”
This was where Bash stumbled. “Ortum told me two months ago that he no longer felt the same connection to the waters as he once did. Before, he could sense the slumbering god through the mystical blood in his veins, but now he feels…nothing. Malum didn’t consider the consequences of removing his heart, and, in doing so, doomed himself. Even when a thousand years comes and goes, he will be too depleted to return and protect the island he adored. And his sentence is almost up.”
Margrete let out a slow breath. “Has anyone heard of Darius throughout the years?”
“Of that, I don’t know, though, there have always been rumors. Darius was a known trickster, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed himself over the years.” Bash didn’t have proof, but there were too many stories of powerful men with unusual abilities—abilities that would be impossible for a mere human to possess.
“Gods. My father stole the only thing that could protect us should the monsters escape. He all but ensured his own demise.” A humorless scoff escaped her full lips. “He needs to be found,” she added under her breath. “Malum’s heart needs to be found. And taken. Because even if you tried to tell my father the truth of what he’s done, he’d never believe it.”
Bash reached over and grasped her hand, needing to feel her warmth enfolded in his palm. He wanted her to know the truth. All of it.
“After the captain betrayed my father’s trust, he returned to Azantian one night with a ship full of mercenaries. They stormed our beaches and slaughtered everyone. They killed our people. Butchered them in their beds. Women, children. Even babes nestled in their cribs. Nobody was safe.”
His heart clenched when he saw her eyes fill with tears that she didn’t let fall.
“He ravished our palace and took as much gold and riches as his ship would allow. I was a child, so my father confined me to our royal suite, but I heard the screams. I don’t think I could forget them if I tried.
“It was the night my father died, and I became our leader. When I found him, after the captain and his men had abandoned the dead within the palace, his body was still warm. I escaped my guard and flung myself on my father’s body. It took two guards to remove me.”
Margrete opened her mouth, but Bash held up a lone finger, silencing her. He wouldn’t be able to get through this if he stopped. That night was a wound that would never properly heal.
“Before my father was murdered—before the captain stormed the palace—he implored Ortum for help. Ortum knew only one way to prevent Wood from ever returning, and while it was a risk, he performed the ritual anyway, desperate to stop the madman we all had trusted.
“Using the sacred words of the ancients, Ortum attempted to steal the power within the Heart. He hoped to place it within another vessel so that at least Malum’s protective power remained on the island, but something went wrong. When he performed the ritual, most of its divine essence vanished into thin air, and only a small portion of its power remained in the Heart itself. After Wood left, he lifted the barriers to surround the island, ensuring nothing could pass through to the mortal world…and that your father could never find us again.
“In any case,” Bash added, “only Ortum has the power to call forth the missing essence once he has his hands on the original vessel.” It killed him to watch Margrete’s face fall.
“If anyone can help, it’s Ortum, princess,” he said, trying to reassure her. His heart fluttered in his chest when she gave him a hint of a smile.
Gods, he had told her everything. And yet, he didn’t feel as worried as he thought he would. If anything, releasing this truth brought him a sense of peace, because now she might understand his actions, the reasons he couldn’t fail. If she understood, then maybe she’d look at him differently. Like someone who was worthy of respect. He’d seen a glint of that in her eyes last night, and he needed more.
“Nothing I say can make it better,” Margrete began, her other hand coming to rest atop his. “But please know, I’m aware of how evil my father is. We need to get the Heart back so Ortum can attempt to call back Malum’s power.” Her features turned to stone as she added, “And in the process, my father needs to be destroyed. If only so he cannot harm anyone else ever again.”
Oh, Bash would destroy him. He
’d take immense pleasure in the act.
Bash opened his mouth before he thought better of it, the words he didn’t dare speak before now tumbling out in a rush. “You know, I cornered Ortum years ago, asking him for solutions should we never get the Heart back. He told me my prayers would be answered when the blood of our enemy arrived on our shores. Only then would I find the peace I craved.” Bash stared at her intensely, his heart racing. “I used to think he meant the captain, but now, I imagine he was talking about you.”
Margrete bit her bottom lip, and Bash’s eyes fell to where she trapped the flesh between her teeth. It took great effort to look away.
“Bash, I—” She surprised him when her lean fingers threaded with his. “I hope I’m a part of the reason the Heart is returned. I want to do everything in my power to help. To help you.”
Those eyes, so wide and full of breathtaking sincerity, stole his air, and, for just a moment, Bash imagined that nothing in the world could ever be wrong if he remained trapped in her gaze.
Just when he was about to do something he might regret—like lean over and press his lips to hers—she cleared her throat, withdrawing her hands from his. Bash watched as she moved away from him, her fingers trembling before she hid them in her lap.
He was amused when she glanced shyly to the stacks, her long hair shielding most of the blush that painted her cheeks. She scanned the rows and rows of books in calculating silence, and Bash curiously observed as her expression became shrewd.
All at once, she shoved from her seat and went to a stack of overflowing texts. “Maybe there’s another answer,” she mused, her fingers whispering along the ancient leather spines.
“I’ve searched for everything. Spells, rituals, even blood sacrifice, which is forbidden in my kingdom.”
Margrete crouched and pulled out a thin red book worn from age. She turned it over in her hands and saw the two interwoven circles adorning the cover, their edges shining in gold.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 17