JAMES
I check Harrison over quickly but he’s none the worse for wear. A few cuts and scratches but nothing serious.
“Take us away from the wreckage,” I order. “Get us out of this mist.”
He nods and turns to bark orders at the crew.
We’d lost two men in the fight, and three more were in critical condition from the cannon blasts but otherwise we’d come out of it all in a good way.
I clutch Caspian’s cutlass in my hand. I’d retrieved it from the sinking ship and my jaw clenches as I think back on the fight.
What started as my usual calculating violence—the ruthlessness I employ during a fight—quickly dissolved as the anger from the last few weeks completely overwhelmed me.
The moment I hit the deck, I was a storm. No one could touch me.
Except for the dagger that nearly took my head off. Thank god the angle was bad.
After Caspian’s well-timed throw at the enemy trying to shoot me in the back, I’d watched him prowl up to the helm and quickly lost him in the mist. I wished I could go cut Malick down with him, but it wasn’t my fight, so I took out my rage on the rest of the crew.
The battle was nearly over when I happened to glance up at the quarterdeck just in time to watch Caspian and Malik tangle and disappear over the edge. My stomach lurched at the sight, and I took a step in that direction only to get wrapped up in the remaining enemy.
Thankfully, I know he’s still alive because once the fighting was over I watched him haul himself onto the Tempest. I catch sight of Van coming from below deck.
“Where is he?” I demand.
Van nods behind him, opening his mouth to say something but I don’t stay to listen. When I reach the door of Caspian’s room, I don’t bother to knock but shove it open and walk in.
Caspian has his back to me. He’s shirtless, trying to paw at the gash on his side.
I stop abruptly, caught off guard at the sight of him—salt water glistening on his not yet dry skin, blood running from several cuts and his hair a wild mess on his head.
He looks utterly devastating and my blood heats.
“Jesus, Van, take forever,” Caspian complains. “Come over here and help—”
He turns and abruptly cuts off what he’s saying, seeing that I’m not Van.
He gives me a once-over, and that feeling in my gut intensifies.
I haven’t cleaned up from the fight yet and I can feel my clothing growing stiff with salt and blood.
I clear my throat and raise Caspian’s sword, my excuse for coming in here—or so I tell myself. I set it down on the bed.
“Found this,” I say gruffly. “We’re moving away from the wreckage.”
Caspian nods, not saying anything. His eyes darken as they take in the state of me.
I briefly see the flash of hunger before he half turns away, sloshing alcohol on his side as he resumes his ministrations.
He curses softly as he tries to thread a needle with hands that have a slight tremor to them.
I know the feeling well. He’s still brimming with adrenaline from the fight—
I take the needle from him without a word, deftly threading it. I drench the entire thing in alcohol and nod to the table.
“Sit,” I mutter.
Caspian settles on the edge of the table and turns his side to me. I make the first stitch, then another—
“You said you weren’t going to be a liability,” I grumble.
He huffs a laugh; the movement making me hyper-aware of how close we are and the feel of his skin shifting under my fingers makes it hard to focus.
“Says the man who I had to save twice today,” he teases.
The dagger.
I do a few more stitches—the silence growing heavy and palpable between us. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me, even though I can tell every touch of my fingers is doing something to him. Every few stitches his abs bunch, as he processes the pain.
“I wish I could have been the one to do it,” I say quietly.
I can feel his eyes turn to me. But my attention stays firmly on the wound.
“We all have our demons to slay,” he says. “And he was mine.” He shrugs and then remembers I have a needle in my hand and stops. “ Mostly I just feel relief.”
“That he can’t touch you anymore,” I say, thinking of my own vendetta. I concentrate on tying off the thread. I grab a cloth and slowly run it over the sutures, wiping away the residual blood. His breath hitches. He covers it up with a sound of affirmation.
“Aye,” Caspian agrees. He slides off the table—opening his mouth to say something, I watch his eyes narrow as they snag on my neck.
“Your turn,” he grumbles. “Sit.”
I touch my neck, feeling where the dagger caught me.
The dagger he made sure didn’t kill me. I slowly trade places with him.
He ends up between my thighs, his fingers going to the top of my vest and jacket.
Mouth in a firm line, he seems bent on not looking up at my face as he unbuttons the top few buttons to reveal the cut.
I watch him, his eyes betraying him as he peels back my shirt.
“Fucking coward, trying to take you out with a dagger in your back,” he growls.
I’m at a loss for what to say—the intensity in his eyes rips away my words.
Caspian grabs a clean strip of cloth and after sanitizing it with the alcohol, slowly trails it across the cut that runs from my shoulder, across my collarbone and ends a few inches up my neck.
The first pass has me gripping the edge of the table, the second makes my breathing pick up until I know he can tell.
The third—and the tension begs for relief between us.
Caspian clears his throat quietly. “It doesn’t need stitches.”
He goes to start another pass with the cloth and I grab his wrist.
“Caspian.” My voice is nothing more than a rasp of barely contained need.
“Hmm?” Caspian risks a glance up at me.
Our eyes clash and his shutter, betraying how touching me is affecting him.
My heart is pounding in my chest, my body strung so tight with anticipation I can hardly breathe properly.
He absentmindedly licks his lips—my eyes involuntarily drop at the action.
This is different from the moment in the brothel but no less electric.
I never thought I’d find myself here—wishing the gap would close between us.
Thinking that maybe I want to taste him—
I’m finding myself inching forward, slowly closing the space separating us. My finger ghosts over his wrist and his breath hitches.
The door slams open and it’s like a bucket of freezing cold seawater dumps over us.
We both pull back.
“Sorry it took me so long—” Van trails off as Caspian steps away from between my knees.
I reluctantly let go of his wrist, feeling the emptiness as he steps away. Van’s head is tilted and his gaze flickers between us a few times. His hands are full of medical supplies.
“Thanks, Van,” Caspian clears his throat. “You can just, uh, put it on the table.”
The room descends into awkwardness as Van puts everything down. He hesitates, but we’re both staring at him and he edges back towards the door.
“That’ll be all Van, thank you,” Caspian says, his voice tight with irritation.
With one more lingering look, he leaves.
“No fucking privacy,” I growl as soon as he’s gone.
Caspian laughs quietly. “Nope, not on a ship—”
He’s hardly finished speaking when Harrison darkens the doorway. Caspian hides a smile behind a hand rubbing his jaw.
“Captain, there’s a storm front headed our way.”
I share one last look with Caspian who still has humor dancing in his eyes, combined with the heady energy still rippling between us—the echoes of unfinished business. He shrugs and I slide off the table, moving to follow Harrison.
Yeah, there’s no goddamn privacy on this ship.
But I’m starting to wish there was.