Chapter 20 #3
Yves’s hand fisted in Rowan’s hair, and he yanked Rowan’s head back.
For a moment Rowan thought Yves would finally kiss him.
But Yves’s upper lip curled, a rabid snarl forcing its way out of him with the last few savage strokes.
His cock throbbed, seed spilling into Rowan’s clenching hole and overflowing as Rowan trembled through the aftershocks.
All he wanted now was comfort. For Yves to wrap his arms around his abused body, soothe his scrapes, kiss his cheeks. Even if they were still angry with each other, surely Rowan deserved that much.
But that was not what happened. Yves pulled out quickly, letting Rowan’s skirt fall over his exposed, leaking hole, and stepped away.
Rowan turned on trembling legs, bracing against the wall.
He reached for his husband, intending to pull Yves to him and end this coldness.
But Yves either didn’t see or didn’t care.
He tucked his cock back into his trousers and strode out of the now silent alley without a backward glance.
Right. Rowan hitched his underwear back into place and slid down until he was seated on the cold cobbles, skirt tucked beneath him, head resting against the wall. Their anger was greater than their love.
Despair overwhelmed him all at once. What was he doing?
Why was he so willing to play into this?
Their sex life had always been rough, but never like this, never with true anger behind it.
He choked down tears and pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle the gasps and half-hitched breaths that accompanied them.
He couldn’t go through this again. Next time Yves came to him, Rowan would refuse.
Another drop of blood slipped down his chin like a tear, and Rowan wiped it on his sleeve.
He must harden his heart like the stones that had scraped across his face, like the ruby that had cut his skin, like Yves’s inhuman heart which still contained a bullet from Rowan’s own gun.
He could not be content as Yves’s mere plaything.
He couldn’t allow himself to slip further than he already had.
He wouldn’t allow Yves to touch him again until he showed Rowan that he was loved, and not just another body for Yves to fuck.
Three taverns already and nothing to show for it. Logan smoothed his blond curls back from his face and plopped his wide-brimmed hat back onto his head. The further south they’d traveled had seen the weather go from the fresh coolness of spring to the humid heat of summer.
Maybe at the next tavern he’d actually get a drink.
Thus far he’d just been asking after the possible location of the Monsoon and its captain, Splinter Zanta, with no luck.
All the sailors he’d asked had either been tight-lipped or didn’t know anything.
The robust flow of gossip between seafaring folk was not working in his favor today.
It didn’t help that most of them already knew about the two pirate ships sitting menacingly in their waters, and had their guard up around strangers.
Maybe he just needed to go to a seedier area.
A gust of wind kicked up, almost blowing his hat off as he arrived in front of a tavern with an anchor painted on the bricks.
A cannonball nestled in an indent in the road propped open the door to let in the fresh air.
Logan recognized it as the tavern where they’d met Henri, and hoped he wasn’t still banned.
He swept his hat back off his head as he stepped inside, eyes quickly scanning the patrons for the most likely group to talk to.
Most of the worn wooden chairs were full of sailors and dockworkers, and even a few Laslandish naval sailors with the hare and oak leaf stitched into their wide, vaguely oak leaf-shaped lapels.
Logan debated whether he should approach them.
They might realize he was a pirate, but they might also have the most accurate information he was likely to get.
He didn’t want to seem too much like he was fishing for information, but at this point his patience was wearing thin, and he just wanted to go back to the Siren Song to sleep off the stress and heat.
One of the sailors glanced at him, a frown tugging down his ale-foamed mustache, and Logan decided not to bother them.
He sidled over to the bar and ordered a mug of ale instead.
He leaned against the bartop, found it sticky, and grimaced as he had to unstick his sleeve from its surface.
The bartender set the mug in front of him and bustled away with his coins.
Logan took a sip of the ale and grimaced again.
It was about to turn. The sourness lingered in the back of his throat.
A sudden longing for the brandy in John’s quarters aboard the Sweet Mercy struck him.
John had been right at the time; Logan’s back and rear had been sore for days after.
He’d tried to hide it, of course, and he thought he’d done a good enough job of it.
Yet every so often, he caught Fox giving him sly glances.
But then again, Fox was Fox and could have been doing that for any number of reasons. He was always up to something.
It didn’t really matter if the others found out about the true nature of Logan’s relationship with John.
He knew they wouldn’t judge him. The most he’d get was some good-natured teasing, maybe an attempt to talk about it.
But the thought of telling them still filled him with unease.
He didn’t really know what this thing was between him and John, and he didn’t want to explain it to anyone else.
Logan shook his head and took another sip of the ale, willfully drowning out thoughts of John. He tried to listen in on the conversations around him, but the voices all blended together into a blur. He caught a barmaid as she passed by.
“Do you know if there are any sailors here who might know the whereabouts of the pirate ship Monsoon?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she cast a furtive glance around the busy room, as if murderous pirates would rise up from between the tables, summoned by Logan’s words. She seemed not to have recognized him or noticed his wooden hand, concealed as it was by a glove and tucked into his lap.
Apparently seeing no danger in passing whatever information she had, she leaned closer.
“I heard the Monsoon was seen fleeing the attack at Roseforte a few weeks back,” she said, half whispering.
Logan’s skin went cold. “Roseforte? There was an attack on Roseforte? By who?” Never mind looking for Zanta. Nia lived in Roseforte. Was she okay? Had she survived?
The barmaid chewed her bottom lip before leaning closer. This was why Rowan always sent Logan on these fact-finding missions—people tended to trust an innocent face no matter whom it belonged to.
“They’re saying it was a sneak attack. Privateers or mercenaries disguised as merchants.
Whole harborfront burned to the ground.” She shook her head, dark brown curls bouncing around her shoulders.
“I can’t imagine all those poor people dead.
First that attack on Wave Harbor a year back, and now this? ”
If she said anything more, Logan wasn’t listening; his thoughts raced faster than he could catch them.
But one single thing pushed its way to the surface, connecting dots.
Months back, Logan and John had asked Zanta to take a gift to Nia in Roseforte as she passed through.
Her ship could be disguised, and she had convincing enough merchant papers.
Was that why the Monsoon had been there?
Had Zanta and Nia met? And had they been caught in the crossfire of the attack?
“…the blockade.”
Logan zoned back into what the barmaid was saying. “Blockade? What blockade?”
She gave him a look like she had just explained this.
Which she probably had. “Everyone’s talking about it.
The Talvans are treating the attack as an act of war from Marra, even though there’s no real proof it was them.
They’ve mobilized their entire armada, and their waters are crawling with navy ships.
If you were planning on heading south, best to turn around and not deal with it. ”
“Thank you.” Logan left the still mostly full mug on the bartop, sure it would probably go right back into whatever barrel it had been served out of, and rushed back out into the sun and down to the harbor.
Rowan had not returned to the Siren by the time Logan arrived. He huffed in frustration and paced the deck twice. Then, realizing the crew members on duty were giving him nervous sidelong looks, went below to pace in Rowan’s quarters instead.
“Logan!”
Logan had only made it halfway down the hall, nervously chewing his thumbnail, when he heard Robin’s voice behind him. He found the tall doctor hurrying to catch up.
“Robin, is anything wrong?”
“Nothing urgent,” Robin said, stopping next to him. “It’s just that…The captain is still planning on letting the captives go, right?”
Oh, right, Robin’s brother was among the sailors from the Sweet Lettie that Yves had forced to join them in some asinine display of power.
Robin had asked Rowan to let David go shortly after, and Rowan had agreed.
David Beckett was making them all miserable.
He was a painter, not a sailor, and snooty to boot.
He refused to do anything except follow Robin around like a scared puppy.
He wouldn’t speak to anyone but Robin or the other captive sailors unless it was to mutter insults, and he sneered at any display of affection between two pirates of the same sex.