3. Knife to Meet You #2
The captain leans close, warm breath fanning my face.
His deliciously dark brown eyes narrow at me, and I try not to flinch away, to instead look my would-be murderer directly in the eye.
It’s as if the joke never happened. His arm is extending, and he is poised to kill, to swipe that blade across my throat and end it all.
No one will ever know what became of me; all they’ll ever see is the missing coat in the captain’s cabin aboard George’s ship.
“Who are you running from?” the captain asks.
I swallow hard, blinking against the glare of the sun as my eyes flick to the watery depths. Who indeed? Isn’t that why someone would sneak aboard a pirate ship, because they were running from someone or something? And haven’t I been doing that for years now? I lick my lips and meet his gaze.
“It’s not a who, sir, it’s a what. I’m running from home.”
It’s why I left Portland. It’s why I hardly return to my flat in London.
It’s why I travel the world, searching for a place where I can finally settle down, for a life that feels worth leading.
I have spent years running away from the idea of home, and now I’m certain I’ll never have one.
Not if this captain has any say. I’ve been too scared to allow myself to settle, to let in even the possibility of happiness, to ignore the looks and the whispers and let someone in—man or woman.
Too scared of what would happen if I imagined a happily-ever-after for myself.
The captain leans back and blinks at me, and he turns to his crew, a look of confusion written across his features. The hollering threats are silenced as everyone aboard the ship quiets, and only the soft creaking of wood and the lapping of the water fill the void.
Oh god, I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? I should have said I was running from the law or something. I’d fit in faster; maybe they’d even be willing to keep me.
Slowly, almost painstakingly, the captain pulls his knife from my throat, sheathing it easily in his large, leather belt.
I reach up with shaky fingers, dabbing at the dribble of blood there.
And as if a switch has been flicked, the captain breaks out into a wide smile, leaning forward to slap my shoulder before throwing back his head and laughing.
I stand frozen as the crew joins in after a long beat.
I chuckle weakly as the pirates around me laugh, a loud, riotous sound, at my expense.
Some of them nudge me almost playfully, and the grips on my shoulders loosen before they let me go completely.
I straighten, pulling at my coat. The movement seems to catch the captain’s attention, because his head whips around, and he takes in all of me with hungry eyes.
For a moment, I think he wants to kiss me. I’ve seen that look enough times to know what it means. But no, there’s something dark there, something not hungry, but more … like he wants to devour me, and not in a fun way.
My hands automatically go to the collar of the coat. Dear god, this situation can get worse.
He stops laughing, and the crew goes silent just as quickly. In one stride, the captain has the collar of the jacket in his fists, cool air slapping my face as I’m lifted halfway over the railing.
I’m going to die, I think, grasping the captain’s wrists and arms as I choke, my toes scraping the deck for purchase. Oh, he is strong.
“Are you wearing my jacket?” the captain asks low, spittle flying.
Yup, I’m going to die.
And then I smell him, that hint of tobacco and salt, the sweetness of burnt sugar nibbling the edges. I clear my throat, the scent making me dizzy. It must be his coat; I would know that smell from anywhere.
“I would never have worn it if I had known,” I croak. I make to remove it, but it’s impossible with him locking me in a stranglehold. Narrowing his eyes, the captain eases his grip, allowing me to shrug out of it. I slide off the jacket and hold it toward him.
“Why should you live?” he asks, taking it.
I look from the captain to the jacket, my tongue heavy. This is it, the final question in my trial aboard this ship. From my research, I gather any other pirate would have run me through by now, bound me, and tossed me into the sea.
But for some reason, not him.
“I can be useful,” I lie. I have never done a hard day’s work in my life. My hands are soft from years of writing, and if he takes one look at them, he’ll know. But I have to lie, I have to hope that I can make myself useful.
A useless pirate is … useless. There must be something I can do aboard this ship, somewhere I can help.
But he just tilts his head and raises a brow at me as if he already knows, and my stomach drops.
Slowly, he shrugs on the jacket, and I can see it fits him much better than it does me, the garment tailored to his form.
I try not to stare at the way it hugs his broad shoulders and elongates his torso, or the way the blue pops against his suntanned skin.
I’ve always liked the idea of pirates, but I’m starting to wonder, do I have a thing for them?
“Take him below,” the captain orders with a wave of his hand.
My cheeks flame as he meets my eyes. Goddamn it, I do have a thing for pirates. Looking after him almost wistfully, I sigh.
Well, fuck me.
I’m screwed.