8. Aye Think I’m Hooked #3
I stumble forward and catch myself against the wall, frowning down at my clothes.
They are not fit for the seafaring life, and now that they’re soaked through with sweat, they are scratchy and uncomfortable.
The outline of my phone against my thigh is even more prominent.
Hastily I go to shove my hand into my pocket to remove it.
“How are you feeling?”
I gasp, my head snapping up in surprise, and I drop my hand, meeting Captain Night’s dark stare. He’s dressed in the same stained off-white shirt tucked into dark pants. But today, he wears no jacket, outfitted only with a belt across his chest, a gun tucked in at his side, and knives at his hip.
He’s sitting at his desk holding a pipe, but he’s not smoking it.
I take a deep breath and recognize the scent, the same rich tobacco that lingers on him.
He sets it aside with a smile. “I don’t smoke it, but I like the smell.
It reminds me of home.” There’s something almost sheepish about the way he says it before ducking his head and tapping out the last bit of tobacco burning in his pipe.
I admire him quietly, seeking the opening in his shirt and the scars across his chest. Surely I didn’t imagine it. The way he touched me, cared for me. The way I wanted to touch him.
And what I now suspect was the tender press of his lips against my cheek as I drifted to sleep.
And I must be delirious even still, because something about the way the leather belt is strapped across Captain Night’s broad chest has my fingers itching to unbuckle it and drop it to the floor, to unsheathe his daggers and pull out the guns before untucking that billowing shirt from his pants.
I clasp my hands behind my back, forcing myself to stay put.
“Why am I in your cabin?” I ask. “If I recall, a certain song warned me of such perilous behavior. Am I to die, then?”
Captain Night chuckles low, and the sound does little to quiet the drum in my chest. He sets aside a quill and sprinkles sand over the piece of parchment across his desk before he pushes back his chair and stands.
I take in all of him hungrily. I can’t help it. He has this way of commanding the whole room, commanding me. In the way he walks—a saunter, a heavy, confident step that makes no noise—and in the raise of his chin, the unwavering expression across his features.
No one can mistake him for anyone or anything else but a captain.
He stops before me, and I feel as though I’m being undressed under his scrutiny. “How are you feeling?” he repeats.
I comb a hand nervously through my hair. “Like someone slammed my head into a wall.” My head is pounding, my body aches, and I feel fatigued. Maybe it’s a mixture of the work and seasickness, but whatever it is, I feel like shit.
“Seasickness happens to the best of us.” Captain Night’s voice softens considerably. He tilts my chin up, inspecting me, and the warmth of his skin, the rough callouses that brush my face, make me shudder. He drops his hand. “You’ll adjust, eventually.”
Why did you stop? I want him to touch me again, and the thought makes my chest go tight, my breath come faster.
I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want him.
Swallowing, I take in the cabin, noticing the off-white walls, the small nicks in the wood, and the black curtains that have been pushed aside.
I run the fabric through my fingers, recalling the joke I made, the way it slipped against my skin.
“But you brought me here. You found me on the deck, and instead of returning me to my hammock, you put me in your bed. Why?”
Though he laughs, there’s a flash of something in his expression, something guarded. “The men are down enough as it is. Not everyone has a stomach for…” He trails off, motioning to me. “Well, your apparent lack thereof. Come, you have duties to attend to, as do I.”
Humming, I follow him out of the cabin without another word, peering back at the mussed bed behind the curtains as I tug the door closed.
I try desperately not to think about last night, about the way I touched him, or how I wanted him to stay by my side and slide into the place beside me under the covers.
He is our captain, and I need to get home.
This is simply a temporary situation. I’ll gather my research, and when the timing is right, I’ll leave.
Right?
But no matter how fresh the sea air is as we reemerge on deck, I can still smell that scent, his scent, comforting and warm, delicate, thick. I want to whirl right around and curl up in his bed, pull his blankets over my head. I want to inhale his scent and nothing else.
I want him.
Impossibly, I want him. It’s only been a day, but I think I knew the moment I felt the press of his knife at my throat that he was nothing but trouble, that this could never end well.
And I was right, but I don’t even care anymore.
This man, this dark and gloomy man with a twisted sense of humor who cares more for his crew than himself, has my full attention.
I watch him hurry up the stairs, admiring the way his pants cling to his legs.
I’d hoist his sails any day.
Snorting to myself, I get back to work.