CASPIAN
Blackwell doesn’t jerk away, but carefully pulls back far enough to look at me.
He’s good at hiding his emotions but when I’m this close, I can see everything—the twitch of his jaw at my boldness, the glitter of intrigue he’s trying to push away.
The way he goes still—like a predator who smells blood in the water and isn’t sure if it’s his yet.
I can practically hear his brain processing, turning over the question in his mind.
Why did I ask him that? Did his question impact the one I asked?
I see the depth to him that fascinates me.
I know the only reason he hasn’t killed me yet has nothing to do with the ransom money.
That’s just the excuse he’s hiding behind.
A vendetta like his, someone who was wronged so terribly by my family, wouldn’t let someone like me live—even only on a suspicion.
No, he hasn’t killed me yet because he doesn’t know what to make of me, and he isn’t a man who meets something he doesn’t understand very often.
The funny part is, I just wanted to get a rise out of him—or at least that’s what I tell myself, that I wanted a fight—and not that I’m finding myself more than just intrigued by him.
But he’s not angrily protesting, nor does he seem embarrassed, which is so much better than a fight. A slow grin slides across my features but before I can say more the door bangs open.
Blackwell steps back like we were doing something we shouldn’t as Blondie walks in. The Viking doesn’t notice, or at least his scowl doesn’t give anything away as he barely spares me a glance before looking at Blackwell.
“Boat’s ready to go, Captain,” he snaps .
My smile turns into a smirk as I sit back down, deliberately making my chains shake. When he looks at me, I give him a little wave.
“Bring me back one of those pot pies from Demerara will you, Blondie?” I lean forward on my arms. “And maybe one of their vintage rums—the Captain here could use a little upgrade to his rum stores.”
Now they’re both scowling at me, although Blondie looks more murderous than Blackwell does.
The Captain puts a hand on the quartermaster’s shoulder, fixes me with a look I can’t quite read and without another word, they leave.
I wait to hear a lock, but I guess Blackwell doesn’t think I’m going anywhere because I don’t hear anything.
Voices filter in from the open windows and I hear the boat row off towards shore. As soon as I stop hearing the splash of oars, I get to work. Because like hell am I sitting here waiting for them to come back.
I dig under the cushion and pull out a piece of metal.
I’d grabbed it when he left me alone last. It doesn’t take me long to pick the manacles and they fall off my wrists; the sound is muffled as they drop to the cushioned bench.
I breathe out a sigh as the relief is nearly instant.
The chafing had gone on in the background, providing pain I could latch onto when I needed it, but it’s infinitely better to have them off.
I rummage through the Captain’s things until I find a few strips of cloth and wrap them around my bleeding wrists.
I grab the rum bottle and take a few deep pulls, nearly groaning in pleasure as the burn hits me in all the right places.
The book of poetry catches my eye.
I take another large gulp of rum as I flip to the page I want.
I grab a quill and rip a piece of parchment from one of the maps.
I scratch a few lines out before giving the whole thing a quick re-read.
Satisfied, I set it on the book and taking one last sip of rum, I slip through the open window into the cold ocean bay.