Kai
Chapter eleven
Two Bullets, Two Hearts
I wake before the sun does. I make my way down to the gunroom and light a lantern, the flame shivering before settling into a low, steady glow.
Shadows stretch long across the walls, dancing over rows of polished steel.
My fingers work a whetstone over a blade until it sings, a sharp, metallic hum that echoes through the cramped room thick with oil, salt, and old gunpowder.
I strike a match and light my pipe. The flame hisses, smoke curling into the dim. The air tastes of salt and smoke. The cold settles deep in my bones, heavy as ballast. Outside, the ship groans against the tide, and a new season rides the wind, cold enough to raise ghosts from the water.
Morning light slips through the slats, turning the steel of the weapons to molten gold.
I’ve been down here long enough to lose track of hour and hunger when the crack of a pistol splits the silence.
A breath later, the sound of screams follows, raw and eager, and something in me snaps taut.
The whetstone clatters to the floor as I shove off the bench and take the ladder two rungs at a time.
And if Mira’s hurt, gods help whoever pulled that trigger.
As I shove open the door, a bullet screams past me, burying itself dead center in the head of a wooden target. I freeze. For a breath, all I can hear is the echo. Then I see her.
Mira stands amid the smoke, pistol steady, sunlight spilling through her dark curls like fire caught in motion.
Her emerald eyes are narrow, shining like sea-glass in water.
She holds the gun with lazy precision, like it’s part of her.
The shot wasn’t luck. It was art. And gods help me, I can’t look away.
For a moment, I just stare. The men cheer her name, voices rising, and I feel something twist low in my chest. Admiration.
Bitter, unwelcome, and sharp as salt on a wound.
She’s my rival, my ruin waiting to happen.
Still, I can’t drag my eyes from her. The way she reloads, calm and unhurried, the sunlight glinting off her pistol.
The crew feels her power, too. The air thrums with it.
“You’re lucky I don’t miss,” she says, amusement tipping her voice. “I would've killed you.” The corner of her mouth curves like a crescent moon.
Jay pads up behind her, steady as ever, his grin all teeth and pride.
“Aye, fine shot, that one,” he says to me, cocking his head as he takes the pistol from her.
He raises it with casual precision and fires.
The bullet lands clean through where a heart would be.
“But I prefer to hit ’em in the chest,” he adds, smoke drifting between his words.
“Hurts longer that way.” He taught me that when I was a boy—aim for the heart, not the head.
Maybe that’s why I never learned how to protect mine.
Mira laughs under her breath, and it’s so unguarded, so easy, it knocks something loose in me.
Smith stands at the stairs, pipe clamped in his teeth, watching with that knowing stillness of a man who’s seen too much.
He gives Mira a nod, brief, but not surprised.
He knows what she’s made of. He forged half of it.
Mira stands unshaken. And me? I’m just standing here watching them both, realizing I might be underestimating what kind of fire I’ve let aboard my ship.
I step forward, keeping my voice flat. I draw a pistol from my belt, let the metal catch the light for a heartbeat. “Let’s make this interesting.” I pace to the center, all eyes on me. “Hang those targets around the ship. Mira and I will swing from rope. Whoever lands the most in the heart wins.”
“And what do I get if I win?” Mira steps closer, the challenge in her eyes.
I want to answer cockily, recklessly, but the words come easy. “Next round’s on me when we dock. For both crews.”
Her laugh is low, pleased. Jay claps once, Smith chuckles, pipe smoke curling like a benediction.
Mira’s crew erupts. Free rum is a promise no pirate ignores.
The deck thrums beneath us, alive with shouts and salt and laughter.
For a breath, I feel it too, the pulse of the ship, the heat of the moment, the pull between us.
It’s competitive, combustible, and threaded with something I can’t name, something that will burn through more than any wager ever could.
“Okay, I’m in. Set up the targets, boys.” She waves a hand in the air, pistol gleaming. Then she turns toward a hanging rope and reloads, movements smooth, practiced. Her confidence is a weapon all its own.
“You’re not afraid—”
“Afraid of what?” she cuts me off, quick as a blade. “Losing to you? No.” Her grin flashes, teeth white against sunburned lips, and for a moment I forget to breathe. I’ve never seen her smile like that before. It’s reckless. Addictive.
“Well,” she says, cocking her pistol, “pick your rope and get ready to lose your title, Pirate Lord.”
“Oh, treasure,” I drawl, matching her step for step, “I won’t be losing anything. But I do love your confidence.” A hint of pink creeps up her cheeks, and it’s the first thing all morning that makes me lose my composure.
I cinch my hand around a ratline and begin climbing, boots finding the knots as the deck falls away beneath me.
Mira follows, moving fluid as tidewater, through the rigging.
We pull ourselves up onto the yardarm of the mainmast and crouch there, high above the foredeck, the world narrowing to rope and sea and the slope of canvas beneath our knees.
Smith stands on the quarterdeck, pistol raised.
I scan the targets pinned along the rail from bow to stern, mark the angles, the swing I’ll need to cut through them all in one long arc.
I steal a quick look at Mira; she’s already measuring the same geometry, green eyes bright as a flare.
There’s a heat in that look, more than competition.
This is a battle of crews and captains now, and neither of us is stepping down.
The crew erupts in cheers. Smith fires his pistol, the signal. I push off the yardarm and swing down, body cutting through the air. The rope burns my palms, the rush of wind sharp as cutlass steel. My first three shots land true, each target splintering clean.
Mira follows close behind, her shot cracking through the air, two clean hits in rhythm with the swing. She moves like wind, fluid and fierce, her laughter carried off by the sea spray.
Then she’s ahead of me, drops to the deck, runs full speed across the planks, and catches another rope.
The move is reckless, brilliant. She launches back up, swinging opposite me, skirts of her coat flaring like fire.
I keep my path steady, though my eyes keep wanting to find her. I land four more shots. Then five.
She hits six. I take seven. And then, she’s flying in again, fast as a hawk diving for its kill, three perfect shots in a row. The crew roars. She’s winning. I grit my teeth, twist midair, and mirror her movement exactly.
I glance to where the last target should be, but those sneaky bastards have moved it. Mira and I stand on opposite sides of the deck now, ropes in hand, boots balanced on the railing. The sea churns below, salt wind snapping at our coats. For a moment, all sound drops away.
We spot it at the same time, the final target, hanging high above the helm. A near-impossible shot. We move without a word, climbing the rigging higher and higher until the ship shrinks beneath us. The higher, the better.
I brace against the mast, plant my boots, and push off the wood for balance. I fire. Another gunshot answers mine in the same breath.
Two bullets. Two hearts. Perfect shots.
The crew erupts below, voices rising like a storm, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the echo of hers beside it. I’m not sure whether I’ve found an enemy or my equal. Because we hit the same spot, at the same exact time. We tie.
We land side by side at the helm, the boards shuddering beneath us. For a long breath, neither of us moves. Just the creak of rope, the crash of the tide, and her eyes on mine. The crew is silent, every man waiting to see which of us will break first.
Jay clears his throat, breaking the tension. He made his way up the stairs, standing between us. “Well,” he says, half-grinning, “looks like we’ve got ourselves a tie, aye?”
I drag my gaze from her and look at him. “Seems so,” I say, voice low. “But I’ll still take the next round when we make port.” She smirks, all pride and challenge, and it does something sharp to my chest. I turn away before she can see it.
Because what I felt for her at that moment wasn’t part of the plan. And I don’t like when my plans start to unravel.