Chapter Twenty-Eight
Heavy pounding shattered the silence like cannon fire.
Isaac flinched, the sound driving a spike through the base of his skull. He’d left the shutters closed, lamps unlit, hoping to escape daylight—and the suffocating weight on his chest.
Another round of knocking came from the door, louder.
He groaned and dragged a hand over his face, the movement making his stomach lurch. His coat lay discarded on the floor, boots still muddy near the hearth. The nearly empty bottle on the table mocked him, a cruel reminder of the sleepless night behind him.
Isaac forced himself up, swaying as blood rushed to his head. He frowned as the scent of ash filled his lungs. Would the God-forsaken smell ever go away? He unlatched the door.
Christian stood on the narrow stoop, the morning sun at his back. A dark brow arched as he looked Isaac up and down. “You still look like hell. I’d have thought a night’s rest might’ve helped.”
Isaac stepped back without a word, letting his friend into the dim confines of the rented house. Christian’s gaze swept the room—past the rumpled coat on the floor, the half-dead hearth, settling on the bottle. His lips twitched. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
Isaac exhaled slowly, his voice rough. “Glad you find this amusing.”
Christian shrugged and picked up the bottle, giving it a sniff before swirling the remaining finger’s worth of whiskey. “You’re the one who did this to yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
With a heavy sigh, Christian turned to him. “You let her go. Stood there and watched him drag her away.”
Fire burned through Isaac’s veins and he staggered forward a step. “What else was I supposed to do? Pull a sword on the governor? Get myself court-martialed?”
Christian didn’t blink. “You could’ve fought harder.”
Isaac clenched his teeth. “I did.” Silence stretched between them before he added, voice hollow, “She’s better off without me.”
A snort answered him. “You don’t believe that.”
His gaze drifted to the coat on the floor. “I do. Doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“Now what? You drink yourself to death in a rented room and call it duty?”
Isaac’s laugh came dry. “I call it knowing my place.”
Christian stepped closer, voice firm. “You love her.”
Isaac nodded once, no fight left. “And that’s exactly why I let her go.”
Admitting it felt like tearing out a part of himself, the rawness nearly bringing him to his knees.
He saw her there again lying beside him, felt the warmth of her hand against his chest, the wild beat of his heart slamming beneath her palm.
Her words had trembled on the air, fragile and fierce at the same time.
I love you. Even now, his reply hovered eager on his lips, ready to leap free.
“I love you, too.” But he hadn’t told her and now the moment was gone, carried off like smoke in the night, impossible to call back.
Christian was quiet for a moment. “So that’s it?”
Isaac blew out a breath. “What else is there? She’s free. From me. From all of this. Whether I like it or not.”
“Fate doesn’t give up so easily. Sometimes it tests you.”
“Fate?” A splintered laugh pressed from his chest. “The moment I realized I loved her… was the moment I had to give her up. I don’t want to hear a damn thing about fate.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was supposed to be simple, Christian. Orders. Strategy. The mission. Then she snuck into my life and everything I thought I knew—”
He broke off, the ache tightening in his chest.
Green eyes glinted in the dim light. “At least you’re admitting it.”
Isaac sank against the wall as Christian drained the remaining whiskey in a single swallow.
He frowned as his friend coughed and set the bottle down with more force than necessary, fingers trembling before drawing into a fist. Beneath Christian’s usual calm, a restless energy flowed.
Something was off. He’d just been too damn preoccupied with his own misery to notice.
He straightened, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t come here to talk about Josephine, did you?”
Christian didn’t answer. He shifted his weight, then began to pace, boots thudding softly against the wood floor. His hands flexed at his sides, opening and closing as if itching to grab something and hold on.
Unease curled in Isaac’s gut. The haze that had clung to him all morning, thick with whiskey and regret, thinned in an instant as his thoughts sharpened. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Christian stopped short at the window, staring out the gap between curtains for a breath. Then he turned back. “I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean?”
His friend lifted his gaze, steady and unreadable. “To join my father.”
Isaac’s head snapped up. “The hell you are.” The words burst out before he could temper them. He took a step closer, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I have to know, Isaac.”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “You know if you go, you will be an enemy of the United States of America?”
Christian gave him a tight smile. “What choice do I have? If the Navy finds out who Thorne really is, there will be no order to capture him. It will be to kill on sight. And then I’ll never find the truth.”
“What about Samantha? What does she have to say about that?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t…” Isaac dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ, Christian, he killed her parents.”
A muscle ticced in Christian’s cheek. “I know.”
“And what if our paths cross out there?” A growl rumbled through his throat. “What if you’re killed in battle?”
Their gazes locked, Christian’s going sharp. “Would you fight me?”
“Of course not.” Isaac’s jaw tensed. “But my men wouldn’t know better.”
Christian scoffed. “You think any of your men could best me?”
“That’s not the point,” Isaac snapped. “This has nothing to do with skill. You joining him… It changes everything.”
Christian’s smirk faded, the weight of the moment settling between them like a storm building at sea.
Isaac stepped closer, eyes hard. “You’re not some nameless sailor defecting to a rogue captain.
You’re my friend. And if you walk away now…
if you stand beside Thorne—you’re no longer just chasing answers.
You’re choosing your side. And God help us both if we end up on opposite ends of a cannon. ”
Christian held his ground, the edge of defiance in his posture tempered by the deep weariness in his eyes. “I know what I’m choosing.” His voice was quiet, steady. “And I know what it might cost. So, don’t lecture me.”
Isaac shook his head, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “Damn it, Christian. There’s no coming back from this—not without consequences.”
His friend’s eyes darkened. “You think I don’t understand that? Think it doesn’t tear me up inside?” The words faltered at the edges, betraying something too heavy to hide.
Isaac stared at Christian, the weight of his declaration sinking in.
His friend’s determination—almost a quiet resignation—settled heavily between them.
“I’ve known you long enough to know when you’ve already made up your mind.
But this… you’re playing with fire. You don’t know what you’re walking into. ”
Christian’s mouth drew into a thin line, but he didn’t back down. “I know exactly what I’m walking into.”
Isaac’s gaze flickered, the frustration brewing in his chest threatening to boil over. “And what? You think that’s going to make it any easier? How exactly are you planning on finding him? We’ve had no luck the last few weeks.”
“I won’t have to.” Christian adjusted his jacket. “Once he hears his son is looking for him, he’ll find me first.”
Isaac stared at him, heart thudding. “Samantha will never let you go.”
Christian lifted his gaze. A shadow passed through his eyes, but a slow, crooked smile curved his lips. “She won’t know. She’s going to be too busy helping you rescue Miss Montclair.”
*
The scent of salt and tar coiled around Isaac as his boots thudded against the wharf. He walked with purpose, but his thoughts churned like the tide. Christian’s words echoed in his skull, each one more absurd than the last. Join his father? Madness. And yet he meant it.
Just as he meant Isaac to keep it from Samantha.
Bitterness burned up his throat at the thought.
He swallowed it down and kept moving, though his pace slowed as the Red Siren came into view, moored at the end of the dock.
Morning light glinted off the water, bright and blinding, and for a moment he paused beside a stack of crates.
He stared across the river, eyes narrowed against the glare.
A dark cloud hung low on the horizon, thick and swollen as if the sky itself conspired against him.
The sun wouldn’t last long. With a sigh he turned back toward the schooner.
Tortuga.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost see it.
A speck of land so inconsequential from the deck of a ship, yet it had changed his life forever.
And then, drawn up from the depths of his heart, came the curve of her smile, bright and wild beneath the waterfall, promising something he had never dared hope for.
But the image was fragile, slipping through his fingers like smoke, replaced by her desperate struggle to escape her father, the look in her eyes that said he was worth more than orders and duty, the hope that had lit her face when he’d rounded the corner and called out.
God, that hope.
Watching it flicker, falter, then die had nearly undone him.
How could she trust him now? He’d stood there, trapped between duty and heartbreak, and let her father tear her away, force her into a marriage to a man she didn’t want.
The knowledge struck him hard, like a fist to the gut.
Some cold, lifeless merchant with silver in his pocket and her father’s approval.
A man who’d take her hand, her freedom, her future.
A low growl escaped him. No.