Chapter 27 Meet Me on the Eventide #2
It’s so tempting to ignore him, or to call his bluff and demand that he has Mattias come up here with more laudanum. It’s the only thing I’ll take now—no more shiny potions from a pirate god. For all I know, the rune on my chest appeared because of something he gave me.
Or because of something you didn’t take. The darkness in my mind is a plague—the tiny, seething voice that suggests maybe he is right. Maybe there is more, much more my màma wasn’t telling me. Something she tried to suppress in me—
No. I can’t think about that. Can’t fall into another chasm of doubt. The truth is I took my eye off the prize for a moment. I slipped and let Rhyland get into my head, twist my emotions until they resembled some deformed version of desire. Want. Lust.
My hand dances over the place where the rune is hidden beneath my shirt and I shiver. This is a game of the cruelest sort, but if he wants me to play I will. What he’ll fail to realize until it is too late is that I play to win.
The main deck is eerily silent when we step onto it—no laughter or stomping. No orders shouted or lawless banter.
Eventide: remnants of golden light slip away under the horizon so that the world, the sea, is cast in vibrant shadow.
The sky becomes a shroud dotted with starlight that glistens off the still water around us.
We’re alone on deck or, at least, it appears that way.
Perhaps a pirate stands vigil up above, a spyglass caught between their fingers.
“Meet me on the eventide, a world reserved for lovers
Where twilight's hush descends, and silver moon, it hovers.
A secret garden blooms, with petals sweet as ash,
Where hearts entwine, and passions meet.
We’ll be alone at last.”
The poem verse runs through my mind and I shiver. I can’t remember now where I read it, or why it stuck with me. Or why I think of it now, here, with Rhyland veiled in darkness, his face stark and haunting when he turns to assess me.
“Well,” my voice croaks, “you have me out here. Now what?”
“Now I prove my point.”
I crook an eyebrow at him, fighting another bout of terrible tremors when a sharp wind threads in from the east. Before I draw my next breath he unsheathes his sword and swings it at me.
Narrowly, I dodge the strike, leaping for cover behind a twin pair of wooden barrels.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
His eyes have the brightest gleam to them when he swings again. I duck and the sharp edge embeds itself into the barrel's side. A slow trickle of rum leaks out when he rips it back.
“Pirate!”
Laughter, cool and enticing, sweeps the air. The sound grips my stomach, though not in the worst way.
Insane. He’s gone entirely mad.
“At least give me a blade!” I shout, yanking the top off from one barrel to use as a makeshift shield. It takes a considerable amount of strength, but I manage to shove the lidless barrel so that it tips sideways, Sweet rum sloshes toward him, drenching the deck and coating his dark boots.
A smile blooms in his eyes, something ruthless and cunning as he kicks it away and advances. “You don’t need it. You can stop me without one.” He swings, and this time I’m not quick enough to dodge. With a subtle rotation of his wrist the flat of the blade meets my upper arm, stinging.
A sound caught between yelp and growl escapes my lips. I pause to inspect the rising pink welt left behind. “You arse! You could have cut me!”
He grins. “If I wanted to, I would have.”
Cocky—another facet of him to add to my growing list. I lift the makeshift shield as he rains down a quick flurry of strikes.
And almost grin back for having blocked each one until he sweeps a leg under me, sending me sprawling down onto my back.
The barrel lid slips from my hand, clattering along the deck.
Several colorful curses escape me. An ache rides along my arse to the top of my spine. There’s not a moment to catch my bearings. Without a shield, the best I can do is roll away from the next assault.
Slash.
Roll.
Slash.
Roll.
Slash.
Roll.
He misses me each time, embedding the edge of the cutlass deeper into the wood planks I just moved from, but I realize after two more slaps with its flat edge against my blocking forearms, he’d been going slow. Pulling his skill.
I kick out hard enough that the heel of my boot smashes into his shin.
Sharp breath whistles between his teeth. And then that low, enchanting huff of laughter follows.
Before he can retaliate, I roll away, scoop up the dropped lid, and grip hold of the railing to pull myself back up to my feet.
“Stop running. Stand your ground, call your fire.”
The withering scowl I give could curdle milk. I rub at the stinging welts, knowing they’ll likely turn to purplish bruises by morning. “Mòr said the marriage bond means we can’t hurt each other.”
“Can’t kill each other,” he corrects quickly with a smirk as sly as a wolf in the night. “My sister has always been one to exaggerate.”
I’m panting and leaning heavily against the gunwale for support. Bedridden for days, sick and feverish, it’s taken the fight out of me. But I can’t remember the last time I stopped something simply because I was too tired to finish it.
“Good to know.”
I rush him, using all my strength to slam the makeshift shield into his sword arm.
The wood cracks in two. He grunts, losing his grip on his weapon just enough that I seize the moment to drive my knee upward toward his groin.
He anticipates my treachery, sidestepping with a grace that belies his size and puts him behind me.
Without missing a beat, he reaches out, grasping the back of my shirt and jerking me into his chest. I find myself at the mercy of his blade once more, pressed across my throat.
We’re close. Too close.
Our bodies brush, the heat of him searing through my thin blouse.
His scent, now achingly familiar, fills my nose—leather, sea brine, a hint of driftwood that makes my breath hitch.
I dare to crane my neck, glaring into the midnight blue of his eyes which burn with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
“Never let your guard down, Nymph. Ever,” he murmurs, his voice a deep rasp that vibrates along my back.
Another simple flit of his wrist and I’m disarmed; the remnants of the barrel lid skid along the deck.
Before I can recover, he twirls me hard in one quick motion so that I’m facing him.
His free hand snakes out, hooking me around the waist to pull me flush against him.
Slowly, he backs me up until my shoulder blades meet with the wall of the forecastle, a soft thud.
His fingers press into my hip. I feel the solid muscles in his arms bunch when he tenses, their power barely contained.
He could easily overtake me, I know it. Warbringer, fallen god.
But there’s a restraint to his hold, a teasing edge that quickens my pulse.
“Yield,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
My heart hammers into my ribs, an echo through my head. Yield? Never. Not to him. Not to any man. Still, a strange thrill courses through me at the idea. The thought of surrendering myself to him, if only this once….
“Make me.” The words slip out as dark and hungry as the night around us. A challenge.
A flicker of something dangerous slips over his face.
He leans down, his lips hovering an inch from mine.
The warmth of his fingers trail up me only to curl around my neck in that slick possessive way.
The blade in his other hand clatters at our feet so that he can bring his touch up, lace it tight through my hair.
“As you wish.”
He tilts my chin back roughly and I can’t breathe, can’t think around the pulse, pulse, pulse in my head.
And then his mouth is on mine, warm, demanding. Nothing like the restrained, chaste meeting of lips from our wedding ceremony.
It’s fire and shale to be touched by him; a curse and a blessing. A feeling that evokes sensations I didn’t know could exist beyond stories inked by star-crossed poets.
How the world could fall away, the sea could dry to bedrock, all of Hlódyn a waste of ash and ruin but I would not know it. Would be incapable of comprehending anything outside his touch. His presence. His passion—
No. My lips rip away from his and with it my traitorous thoughts.
He lets me go without a fight, steps slowly back so I can turn away, breathing hard. My eyes are crammed tight together.
“Nymph,” he whispers.
I can’t answer. If I did, it would be with a great gasping sob that’s trying to force itself from my chest.
No, no, no. I can’t feel this way. Not again. Not ever. But it’s so much worse than it was with Harlow. He had been the wind but Rhyland is the sun. If I fell…and if I ever lost him, my universe would drown in a darkness from which it would never recover.
I can’t love you. I can’t protect you.
“Nymph,” he says again, softer now. “Look at your hands.”
My eyes come open. I gaze down at my spread palms, blinking the threat of tears away to see smoke. Small tendrils of silverish flame dancing along my fingertips.
I turn in an almost violent movement to gape at him, finding him patting out scorched patches on his leather coat, burned imprints of my hands.
“Y-you did that on purpose?”
His stare is that familiar cold wall. The one I’ve only managed to peek behind once or twice—if that.
He nods.
Something in me withers before fracturing. Of course…of course it meant nothing. He was manipulating me. Trying to stoke my emotion to tempt the flame to the surface. The kiss meant nothing.
My cheeks go hot and the blaze from my fingers vanishes more readily than it appeared. Humiliation writhes inside of me, a living beast.
“How does it feel…your victory?” I ask.
A pulse of emotion on his face, and then emptiness. He says nothing, turning away and lifting his sword before he steps into the shadows.