JAMES
I wake up to screaming and the smell of smoke. My mother is shaking me frantically.
“Wake up!” Her eyes are wide with fear, her grip unrelenting with barely contained panic as she drags me out of bed. May is standing next to her, groggily rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“What’s happening?”
My mother doesn’t answer, instead she shoves me towards the footboard of my bed.
“Help me, James,” she demands.
The bed scrapes across the floor as together we pull it aside, revealing a trap door leading into a dug out space my sister and I used to play in as children. A boom of a cannon causes us all to jump and dust rains down from the ceiling as the concussion rocks the foundation.
My mother rips open the trap door. “Hurry!”
I hear shouts from outside our front door and the crash of wood—someone’s trying to get in.
The panic overruns my mother and she all but shoves May into the hole.
May squeaks out a protest but it’s drowned out by the shattering of timber.
My mother rushes out of the room. I hesitate, one hand on the trap door, but my attention is on the sounds coming from the front room.
“James! Don’t leave me—” May chokes out, wringing her nightdress in her hands. She looks up at me from the darkness with tears dripping from her lashes.
Mother screams. Men shout.
I shake my head at May. “Stay quiet.”
“James!”
“I mean it, May!” I slam the door and throw all my boyish strength into the bed, somehow shoving it back into place on my own .
I run out into the living room to see a man wearing De’Vero colors fighting with my mother. He has her bent over across our dining table with one hand fisted in her hair and the other beneath her dress. There’s blood running down her forehead, mixing with her tears.
“Get off ‘er!” I shout.
“James, no!”
But I don’t listen. I throw myself at the man, taking him to the ground.
But I’m no match for a full-grown De’Vero soldier and he easily beats me off him.
The two others pummel me with the butts of their guns and darkness is quick to pull me under, the sound of my mother’s screams and the jeering of men follow me into unconsciousness.
I come out of the memory and throw back the rum I’ve been worrying, clutching the glass so hard I can feel my bones grind together.
That nightmare had only been the start of the horror De’Vero inflicted on me.
I fought tooth and nail out of that hellhole until the day I was able to escape, and I vowed to never again be under the thumb of any man, King or otherwise.
Never again would I answer to anyone—but De’Vero and every other man who’d wronged me would sure as hell answer to me.
The need to hit something sweeps over me.
I slam the empty glass down and reach for the rum again.
Having a De’Vero prisoner on the ship is making my thoughts travel more frequently through the past, bringing up ghosts I don’t want to face.
I pour another finger of rum, feeling a little drunker than I want to be but the voices in my head aren’t being quiet and to make matters worse, I can’t get the other day with Fox out of my mind.
He licked the goddamn blade.
And the reaction it provoked in me is making me irrationally angry. Smoldering and dangerous—something has awoken inside me and it continues to linger. I can’t figure out what it is—
Intrigue? Hate? Or, god forbid, lust ? What does that even mean?
My lip curls with displeasure, not sure I want to travel that tide at the moment.
But there’s no denying I’ve never felt this wild energy before—it’s similar to what I used to feel in the brothels and with Celeste—or at least until recently, but not nearly as intense.
It’s the kind of energy that makes my breath shorten and my cock harden.
I’m not opposed to liking men, it’s the thought of being attracted to this male in particular that’s making me feel nauseous.
I’m just intrigued because I hardly ever come across anyone willing to provoke me anymore.
That’s what I tell myself as I down the rum and shove the bottle away. Regardless, I haven’t been back down there in three days and instead have proceeded to put a dent in the rum stores.
But I know I can’t keep doing this—turning to alcohol to avoid Fox.
And avoiding him why—because of the way he looks at me like he’s seeing everything?
Even the parts I can’t see? That’s certainly what it feels like when he gets that cocky smile and tilts his head just so.
Usually I’m the one doing the manipulating but ever since he’s arrived on this goddamn ship it feels like he’s been the one in control.
Standing up, I decide it's time to pay him a visit. I’m sufficiently inebriated from the rum and I need a distraction.
Both from the memories lingering beneath the surface and the way my mind runs wild about my prisoner when I’m alone.
Thoughts that don’t have as much hate for him as they should since I’m pretty convinced he’s a part of the House of my enemy.
I step down into the brig, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.
Fox is curled up in a corner of the cell, eyes closed, breath even—asleep or passed out—either way he doesn’t wake as I perch on a barrel and study him.
The image of his tongue sliding across the flat of my blade comes unbidden to my mind.
I scowl and cross my arms, frowning down at his unmoving form.
He mutters something in his sleep, his body jerking. He presses himself against the wall, shaking his head at an invisible enemy. His words are jumbled and mostly inarticulate but I hear enough to get the gist—someone is hurting him.
I move closer to the cell, where I lean my arms against the iron and press my head against the bars. Fox turns further into the wall, the action causes his shirt to slide off one shoulder and I see the pale evidence of lash marks disappearing down his back.
Odd .
Would this man ever yield answers instead of more questions?
Fox jerks awake, running his shaking hands over his face; he doesn't notice me until he turns his head and startles again, cursing.
“Jesus, Blackwell,” he grumbles.
“Dreaming of me?” I taunt.
“Go away.” His voice is without the usual bravado. “I’m not in the mood.”
I feel his eyes on me as I unlock his cell and step inside. I yank him to his feet and shove him face first into the wall.
“What the fuck?” He protests.
Ripping his shirt further off his shoulder, I catch a glimmer of his hatred as he glances over at me. There is none of his usual cockiness anywhere on his face, and I only have a moment to realize there also still isn’t any fear, before my attention is quickly diverted .
“Curious for a noble to have lash marks.”
My eyes trace over the multiple scars criss crossing his back.
Some had obviously been deep—someone had done this to be violent, not dole out punishment.
He presses his forehead against the wall, the slump of his shoulders tense but more defeated than usual.
Although not from a lack of fight, more a resigned attitude of annoyance that I’d discovered this about him and he’s now having to put up with my curiosity.
“What happened?”
His eyes stay closed. “Go away.”
“Is that what your nightmare was about?” There’s a hitch in his breathing—subtle, barely there. A vicious smirk twists my features and I shove all the other feelings away, replacing them with ones I’m familiar with.
Rage, disgust, contempt…
“Fuck you,” he chokes out.
“Poor little Fox,” I whisper. “Who haunts you when you close your eyes?”
Satisfaction tears through me as his breathing becomes harsh and ragged.
Emboldened by the fact it is in fact possible to rattle him, I want to push him, provoke him until he breaks.
I have my claws in his cracks and I’m ready to ravage my way down to where it’ll hurt the most. I press him harder into the wall and lean into him, my lips inches from his ear.
“Who did you fail? A lover? Your family—” He flinches. “Ah—family then. Let me guess, they trusted you and you let them burn. Is it their blood on your hands, Fox?”
There’s no warning as he lunges for me. He’s weak but his rage fuels him beyond dehydration and hunger.
He’s intentional and deliberate with his movements and it’s immediately apparent he’s had formal training of some sort.
Even angry, he’s not sloppy and I find myself having to actually put forth some effort into staying upright.
Fox lands two hits, while the third glances off my jaw as we careen into the bars on the other side of the cell.
He shoves the chain of his manacles against my neck and presses me against the iron.
His breathing is rough, the fury blinding as the black overtakes the ocean hue of his eyes.
His carefully crafted control is gone, and it’s like looking into the head of a storm over the sea—thrashing with danger—roaring in pain.
Pain that’s written on every line of his face.
“Were you not strong enough?” I breathe, chiseling away at every crack because I can’t fucking help myself.
His heated breaths brush against my skin. “You know nothing about me. ”
“I know you can’t keep up this facade forever,” I growl. “I will get answers.”
It’s my turn to headbutt him. He grunts and we fall apart.
I advance on him but he recovers quickly and we collide, tripping each other up enough to crash to the ground.
Fists fly but it’s less about either of us gaining the upper hand, and more about taking the rage we both have out on the other.
I find myself on top as we slam into the wall of the ship.
Chests heaving, we lay there—him with his chain looped around my forearm and me with my hand enclosed around his throat. The air is charged between us.