Chapter 17
Hook
Half a bloody day spent lurking near the royal outpost, and he’d yet to find a good way in.
The building itself was easy enough to find—all he had to do was follow the Green Coats.
But they’d gotten smarter. There were few windows and many guards posted outside the doors.
He’d learned more sipping ale in a nearby pub than watching the building.
The guards liked to drink after their shift.
Though today, all they’d blabbered on about was their newest romantic conquests—or lack thereof.
He’d have to try another tactic tomorrow.
The streets had already thinned, and being out alone at night would attract too much notice.
Hook sighed as he pushed open the main door to the inn where they’d stay the night, the Gilded Pearl.
The common room bustled with life. The scent of fatty roasted meats wafted over him, setting his mouth to watering.
One advantage of land was the varied food, and the cook here was known for it.
Even Hook could only handle so much fish stew and stale bread.
“Aye! There he is!” Sage’s familiar voice pulled his attention. She waved.
Half-empty tankards of ale littered the table. He grinned. No surprise there. At least they were all well, though Smee had lost his shirt. Francis stripped off one boot and thumped it on the table.
“Not there, you dimwit!” Sage swatted it onto the floor and scooped dice off the table.
Ah, strip dice.
He hadn’t played it in months. He slid his arm further under his cloak. And he wouldn’t be playing tonight. Though watching, aye, that could be a pleasure if they rounded up a few more players to—
He froze half-way to the table. He hadn’t seen her, her slight form blocked from view by Smee. The blonde braid was unmistakable, but the look on her face—pink cheeks, slightly glassy eyes—that was the look of his nightmares.
And, if he were honest, his very best dreams.
Tink looked just like she had the night they met, except she still wore his shirt. Bloody hell. He ran his hand down his face.
Hook slid into an empty chair and leaned over the table. “What are you fools doing?”
“Dice,” Smee replied at length, barely audible over the racket behind him. Tipsy faces blinked at him, even Tink.
Thank all the gods it wasn’t only his crew occupying the large room.
Plenty of others crowded at tables and near the bar, making just as much racket.
The game alone wouldn’t draw much attention.
It was one of the reasons he liked the Gilded Pearl.
People didn’t ask questions—it was the inn’s one unspoken rule.
But if Tink rolled poorly and someone saw her wings, that rumor would never stay quiet.
They’d be running for the forest before dawn.
Not to mention they’d need to avoid port, maybe even the cove, until the rumors calmed.
“And you let our guest play?” He didn’t bother to keep the edge out of his voice.
“She wanted to,” Smee said with a shrug.
“I’m right here,” Tink snapped.
“And you should know better.”
Tink shrugged. “I’m winning. Are you joining us or not?”
Everyone looked at him. Terrible, bloody idea. “You know I’m not.” Even here, flashing his hook about was too much of a risk.
Davies dumped the two die onto the table, and their game resumed as if Hook didn’t exist. He rolled a five, letting him pick someone to lose a piece of clothing. If Davies picked Tink… His hook dug into the table.
“Smee.”
“Me again?” But his first mate’s grin showed he wasn’t annoyed. Far from it. Smee had half undone his belt before Davies named him.
Another roll and Sage gained a piece of clothing.
Tink took the dice and shook them in the wooden cup before spilling them onto the table.
A three. If she dropped that cloak…
“What was that about winning?” Sage cackled.
Tink stuck out her tongue and stood, swaying in the process. She thumped one booted foot on the chair, unlacing it to the whoops and hollers of the table and a few other patrons nearby.
Hook couldn’t pull his gaze away, couldn’t see anything but Tink fumbling with the laces before sliding one tall boot off her foot, then the other.
She stumbled into Smee as the second one pulled free.
Not for the first time that day, he loathed his first mate.
It should have been him she relied on to steady herself.
Her hands sprawled across Smee’s bare chest.
“Whoa there.” Sage gave a pointed look at the table. He’d gouged a deep groove with his hook.
He needed more ale for this. The ones from earlier weren’t doing their job. He was too tense. Too…everything.
“Sure ya don’t wanna roll?” someone said as the dice made their way to him.
He waved them off and aimed for the bar on the opposite side of the room.
Women stared at him unabashedly as he waited for his drink, coy smiles shot his way, winks, unspoken promises.
Gods, he’d loved it once, having his pick, luring them in like fish to bait.
And he always hooked his prey. But every damn woman looked the same to him now.
He saw only one face no matter who he looked at.
Titania said it wasn’t a curse. She couldn’t lie, but she had to be wrong.
Ale had never tasted so good as he tipped back the mug, gulping half of it in one swig.
A brunette slid up next to him. “Hey there, stranger.”
Hook flinched back as she reached for him. Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? Those warm, brown eyes and that painted smile should have any man on his knees.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of blonde. Tink stood, fumbling with her cloak. What had she rolled this time?
“Hey!” the woman called as he fled, drink forgotten.
Hook slammed his hands on the table, causing his crew to jump and look his way.
Tink’s hands slipped from the knot she pulled at—but it wasn’t her cloak.
She’d undone the ties on her tight breeches, revealing a glimpse of pale skin.
And that look on her face…lips pink and parted, a deep blush coloring her cheeks, tendrils of hair fallen free from her braid to brush the sides of her face.
With effort, he pulled his gaze to the table. Snake eyes. She’d rolled snake eyes. The odds were—fuck the odds. She couldn’t strip everything off, especially not here.
“Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Stop right now.”
“Sorry, Captain,” she slurred, while tugging at the waistband of her breeches. “Rules are—”
Tink screeched as he hefted her off the ground and tossed her over his shoulder. The whole bloody room turned to stare at them. Great. Just bloody great. He hadn’t given two seconds’ thought to anything before he rounded the table and scooped her up in one swift move.
Fists smacked against his back as he adjusted her weight. The blows were mild at best. Either she didn’t want to hurt him or she was too drunk for anything more. The prior—hopefully.
“Put. Me. Down!”
Davies fell onto the table in his efforts to avoid Tink’s flailing legs. Others jumped up, knocking over chairs and spilling ale all over the damn place. What a fucking mess.
“Grab her boots,” he ordered to no one in particular.
Sage jumped to comply, still sober enough to follow orders.
“I swear, if you don’t—” Tink slammed a fist into his lower back.
Hook groaned. Okay, that one hurt. He grimaced, nearly snarling at people as they jumped out of his way, forming a narrow path toward the set of stairs he aimed for. More than one glanced to his hand, or lack thereof. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Lovers’ spat. Give them space,” Sage called.
“Lovers!” Tink shrieked but blessedly went still.
“Aye, love, you’ve had a bit too much.” Way too much.
“Don’t call me—ugh,” she groaned as Hook took the steps two at a time. “So much spinning.”
“You’re at the end of the hall. The rest of us are sharin’ bunk rooms on the right.” Sage slid around him, keys in one hand, Tink’s boots in the other. “Do you want her—”
Fuck yes, I want her. “My room.”
Sage bit back a grin but stayed silent.
The room was small—private, but small. And the bed was narrow, shoved against a wall, made for one.
When the bloody hell was he going to get his bed back?
He should have kicked Tink out of his room on the Jolly Roger, let her grab a spare cot with one of the crew.
But he couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to.
And damn if he didn’t want her here now.
Hook settled the too-quiet Tink on the bed.
Sage dropped Tink’s boots on the floor with a dramatic thump. She jangled his key in the air until she had his attention, then tossed it to him with surprisingly good aim. “Anything else, Captain?”
“Dismissed.”
She canted her head to the side. “Downstairs?”
He’d caused quite a scene, maybe worse than if Tink had exposed her bound wings—or her whole stunning self.
“Drinks for the house.” He tossed her a sack with the last of the coin not set aside for the witch.
It’d keep the crowd happy if nothing else.
It was a sailor’s code to keep quiet when offered free ale, and it was sailors who favored this inn.
His people. Maybe they’d keep their mouths shut for a few more hours at least.
“Aye, aye…” Looking from him to Tink, she wiggled her brows. “Captain.”