32. Grace and Freedom #2
But her thoughts kept slipping. She caught herself watching the sea, entranced by the way the light played over the ripples and waves, and each time she did, she’d force herself to turn away and tell herself she could fight it.
And she could, because she’d handled worse.
No mermaid or sickness would make her change her mind.
She was stronger than most, and she’d be stronger than this too.
She would not fling herself in the water. No matter how much she wanted to, even if the ocean was vast and free and lovely. It wasn’t so hard to tamper those impulses, and it didn’t matter if the water was cool and welcoming.
It wasn’t tempting that she might swim where she wanted or make a home in the deep where she’d never be found, and nothing appealed to her about living in a vast, beautiful ocean rife with possibilities and creatures and places to explore, where nails and teeth could be her weapons.
She’d find nothing in it to entice her, not even as the sun began to sink toward the sea.
Copson had once warned her that her desires would change, but she wouldn’t budge here. She’d show him that she was so staunch in her convictions and her choices that even a sickness of the mind wouldn’t sway her.
“Cecily, no.”
She blinked, only a few paces from the rail.
The open ocean stretched toward the night crawling up the horizon, her body anchored in place only by Jack’s hand around her wrist. She peered back at him, the fading light turning him orange and red, like he was on fire—so bright that he was uncomfortable to look at.
“No,” he said again.
Her awareness flickered. In one second, she was looking at Jack. In the next, she was overcome by how lovely the ocean was, how nice it would be to have fins and to breathe.
The thought was so intoxicating it nearly brought her to her knees.
She’d never feel suffocated again if she could sink beneath the water and breathe fully and freely.
She thought of the merman who’d gifted her his breath when she was about to die, and how beautiful and wondrous it had been to fill her lungs when she’d nearly drowned.
She’d never have to drown again.
“Cecily, stop.”
Her shoulder tugged and Jack was before her, hauling her away from the rail. It was closer now, and so was the sea.
Condemn him, she thought, and for a horrible moment, she was about to give in.
He’d once hated her—had practically begged her to get herself thrown off the ship. If he could hate her again, she’d be free to go to the sea.
And though she’d failed to make him properly hate her before, this time she had better accusations—things she had deduced about him.
He had a life beyond piracy where he was a wealthy man with a large home and money, and she’d known men like that.
She’d killed men like that. One was left alive, and he’d hated her.
If Jack hated her too, he’d let her go—
Her wicked thoughts jerked to a halt when Jack swore—loudly. She followed his gaze to her arm caught in his hand. Scales had appeared beneath his fingers, a happy, pretty shade of rosy pink that reminded her of cakes and gowns, glitter and feathers, things she might have enjoyed as a baroness.
Her eyes snapped to Jack’s face, and she nearly snarled at him for keeping her here. Fine men with wealth and money always want something that won’t want them back—
Her awareness wavered. Her mouth had opened, the words half formed on her tongue like wicked barbs. Realizing what she was about to say, she snapped her mouth shut and swallowed her animosity and the untruth of it before it could surge from her.
This was not her. She wouldn’t succumb, no matter how tempting. She wouldn’t cause Jack that sort of pain, wouldn’t lie to him so cruelly.
“Jack,” Copson said, striding across the deck, but his voice wavered and warbled, as though she heard it from a long way off. “Get her below… Lanterns…light…sickness is over.”
He thought her to be so changeable. She wasn’t. She had no will to go to the cool depths of the sea where she’d be among monsters, graceful and free.
She was grossly aware of her clothes and her skin and the sweat dripping down her back. Her bones were too tight, her body too heavy, too hot, too dry, too caught, too human—
That’s when she knew she had lost. Jack was pulling her away from the open and air and down a flight of stairs.
He was speaking to her, pleading, his voice raised over hers, though she didn’t know what she was saying.
Only that she was uncomfortable, nearly in pain, and she would happily claw out of her own flesh if only it meant she could be in the cool water.
Disappointment was the last thing she recognized before her awareness slipped away entirely. Because Copson had been right about her, and she hated it.
Cecily came to her senses faster than she’d lost them.
She panted as though she’d been fighting for her life. She blinked, and the world came into focus.
Jack’s room was dark with night, but she could see one of the chairs had been ripped from the bolts that held it to the floor.
Clothes and glass were scattered about, including the candles and the lantern, which now lay broken on its side.
She could smell oil leaking from it, as well as sweat—and blood.
Her body was exhausted, her throat raw and sore, and her breathing labored. Were she not so tired, she might have been afraid—especially as she realized she was restrained with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her wrists shackled in Jack’s strong hands.
He was wrapped around her on the floor, his back to the bed while his arms trembled from where they held her, her back pinned to his hard chest. She sat between his thighs with her knees folded against her, his long legs locked around her shins.
His lips were at her ear, and he panted as hard as she did as he whispered, again and again, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Her body was tense, coiled to spring, and it took her several seconds to force her muscles to relax. One by one, she let them go limp, and her breathing calmed enough for her to finally speak. “Jack?”
His head drew back. “Cecily? Are you…?”
She tried to pull from his grip. “What’s…why are you holding me?”
He released her slowly, letting one hand go free and loosening his legs. His movements were jerky and stiff, like he’d held the same position for hours.
“You don’t remember?” His voice was as strained and raw as her own.
He looked at her through half-lidded eyes. Hair stuck to the sweat on his face, but when he met her gaze, he sighed and slackened. His legs splayed and his arms fell to his sides—revealing the deep, bleeding gouges scraped through his forearms.
“Jack!” She reached for his hand, but when she saw the blood beneath her nails, she swore.
He gave a tired chuckle. “So demure.” He was shaking, practically twitching as he lifted his arm to look at the wounds. He grimaced and gingerly lowered it, pulling in a long breath as he continued to tremble. “That little swear is the most palatable thing you’ve said all night.”
With his blood covering her fingers, she grasped for any memory from the last several hours. “I don’t…Jack, I don’t remember anything. Did I do this?”
He watched her carefully, his gaze moving to her hands, now scaleless.
“You had nails like daggers,” he muttered, “and you used them liberally.” He must have heard the bitterness in his voice and attempted to lighten it.
“Tried to bite me a couple times with a set of fangs like you wouldn’t believe.
And your eyes went black, like that creature. ”
Now she was shaking too as blood ran down his arms. “Tell me what happened.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the details, but she needed to.