Chapter 37
It was not the bright afternoon light that woke Rowan from his deathlike slumber, but the sheer stillness of the ship.
He was used to falling asleep and waking up to the gentle rock of the Siren traversing the waves.
So at first, when his consciousness surfaced enough to be at least halfawake, he imagined himself back on Illusion.
But no, even in Illusion’s manor house with its fine feather bed and softest linens money could buy, Rowan often slept in his cabin aboard the Siren.
And besides, he could hear the familiar creak of her timbers around him.
Rowan’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring at waves of light reflecting off the water onto the ceiling.
He’d managed to extricate himself from Yves’s embrace sometime during the night, as he often did.
Now he lay on his back with the blankets kicked down around his knees and one leg flung over Yves’s legs.
His fitful posture took up most of the bed, and he glanced over to find Yves slumbering peacefully on his side in the small sliver that remained.
One hand was tucked beneath the pillow to keep sleep-Rowan from flinging it, and the other pressed down against Rowan’s chest, whether to keep Rowan’s fitful sleep at bay or feel Rowan’s heartbeat, he didn’t know.
Rowan tried to keep his breathing slow and even so as to not disturb him.
There was nothing of the demon in him now.
Thick, dark eyelashes rested against pale cheekbones, and pink lips slightly parted around sleeping breaths.
Yves always looked fully human when he slept, and as much as Rowan loved every part of him, including the inhuman parts, he relished these moments too.
Moments when Yves was at peace, and Rowan could imagine them growing old together.
Every inhale brought Yves’s scent to his nose, but there was something new to it now.
Something electric and watery mixed in with his usual scent of salt, sex, and whatever cologne was most fashionable at the time.
It was as if he’d wrapped the storm around himself like a cloak, ozone and rain and death all woven into one.
Lost in these thoughts, he brushed the backs of his fingers over Yves’s lips. Yves blinked awake.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Rowan said softly.
“You woke me approximately six times with your thrashing.” Yves’s voice was deep and grumbly with sleep, but held an ocean of affection. The shadows unfurled from his back, dampening some of the afternoon light, but did not stir further.
What did stir, was Yves’s cock against Rowan’s leg.
Yves’s hand wandered down to grab Rowan’s waist, tugging him closer so he could nuzzle into Rowan’s neck.
“You sleep like an unruly toddler, you know. I’m surprised that little minx of yours isn’t absolutely covered in bruises from your battering.” He feathered kisses over the tender skin between Rowan’s neck and shoulder.
“He’s not a minx. He’s Fox,” Rowan protested, nonetheless enjoying the attention.
“A minx is not the same as a mink, darling.” Yves’s hand roamed across Rowan’s waist, and up the inner thigh of the leg still flung over him. “His skin would not be as pretty decorating the collars of my coats.”
“I know that.” Rowan tried to wiggle out of his grip, but not very hard. “I just mean Fox is Fox. He’s just like that.”
Yves sighed almost contentedly, seeming not to care anymore that he’d found a naked man in his husband’s bed just a few hours ago.
“Look, Yves, about last ni—” Rowan’s apology cut off as Yves kissed him. He surrendered to it, Yves’s mouth moving warm and sweet as honey against his. When Yves pulled away, he smoothed Rowan’s still-damp hair back from his forehead.
“Don’t speak of it again, darling. We should only look forward.”
Forward, toward Zanta and Shaw. But first he had to…
He sat up, suddenly remembering the reason he’d woken up in the first place.
The Siren was stuck, and now that the storm was over, they had no way to get it down, and no way to know when or if the storm would come back.
He clambered off the end of the bed before Yves could seduce him further, but as soon as his feet hit the cold floor, his knees went weak.
“Shit.” He grabbed the edge of the bedframe to steady himself.
In the bliss of finally waking up on the right side of Yves’s temper, he’d almost forgotten the other events of the night.
Every muscle from his neck down to his feet ached with the long, cold hours of battling the storm.
Especially his lower back, which cramped with the sweet ache almost akin to longing that usually followed a night with his husband.
Yves nudged Rowan’s hand with his foot. “Come back to bed. The Siren isn’t going anywhere.”
“That’s the problem.” Rowan pushed off the bedframe and crossed the rug unsteadily.
It was bad enough for his balance that the Siren was now stationary, but to add muscle soreness on top of that?
It was a wonder he made it to his destination.
He steadied himself against the wall and drew a fresh pair of breeches from the same trunk Fox had kidnapped Yves’s dressing gown last night.
Yves likely wouldn’t be getting that back.
The hem was probably dragging across the deck behind Fox even now, and he would probably make some argument about how it “brought out his eyes”—everything seemed to—or that he was owed it as restitution for the emotional damage of being kicked out of bed naked by a jealous pirate captain—not the first time that had happened—and honestly?
Rowan was inclined to let him keep it. He knew Fox would reach new heights of androgynous rakishness in it, and gods help Gael when he returned to that.
“Need help with those?”
Rowan blinked, realizing he’d just been staring at the breeches in his hand for long enough for Yves to sneak up on him. He contemplated the wad of fabric for another moment, trying to muster up the strength to lift his foot and attempt to put them on.
Yves’s arms wrapped around his waist, lips meeting the back of Rowan’s shoulder.
“Come back to bed.”
“I have things to do.” But he allowed himself to lean back into Yves’s chest for just a moment.
“Then perhaps a skirt is better suited for your sudden frailty?”
“And give you unfettered access to my nethers? Not a chance.” Even now Yves’s massive cock rested, half hard, against Rowan’s naked buttocks. A threat, and a promise.
Yves sighed, as if his entire life was one long chore and he didn’t even have a bit of dick to look forward to at the end of it.
“Let me help you, then,” he said sullenly. Rowan might have even imagined he was pouting. “Lean on me.”
A damp breeze caressed Rowan’s face as he finally stepped out onto the eerily still deck of the Siren Song.
The air still smelled of rain, but the pink mist had mostly cleared away with the sun’s ascent.
A few gray clouds scuttled high in the pale sky, not quite threatening another storm.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, darkness hanging over the horizon.
Having gotten used to some of the soreness, Rowan strode across the deck between the few crew members who weren’t still abed. They milled around uselessly, having precious little to do with the ship stuck high above the water’s surface.
“Captain!” Logan waved to him from the rail near one of the rock spires.
His fingers curled into his palm when he spotted Yves walking behind Rowan.
His mouth thinned to a line, partly hidden by the shade of his hat.
Ignoring that for now, Rowan joined him at the rail.
Logan ignored Yves’s presence altogether.
“Are you feeling alright? Did you get enough sleep? You really should have woken me earlier.”
“I’m fine. I probably got more sleep than you.” Rowan waved off his concerns, hoping Logan hadn’t noticed how gingerly he’d walked over.
Logan’s gaze flicked to Yves, the disapproval in his expression deepening. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Gods, at some point Rowan would have to explain he and Yves had made up, but he was too weary for it right now.
“So how are we going to get our trusty Siren out of this mess?” Rowan asked with forced cheerfulness.
Logan grimaced, then returned to what he’d been doing. Which Rowan now saw was a tally of the damages incurred, written in Logan’s shaky handwriting.
“Honestly, short of dismantling the entire ship, I can’t really think of anything,” Logan said grimly.
Rowan’s gaze swept over the damage. In the daylight, it looked even worse than it had last night.
That few foot drop had gouged the Siren’s well-maintained sides, leaving only a few inches of board and a spray of foot-long splinters trapped between the ship and the pale rock.
Rowan reached out and tentatively touched the rock, as if the little pressure from his hand would dislodge the Siren and send all of them plummeting to their deaths.
“How far down do the scrapes go?” The rock was cold beneath his touch, and he followed the line of it up to the top of the spire, which tapered almost to a point twenty feet above the top of the mainmast.
“Hard to tell,” Logan said. “I tried knocking from the inside and managed to see a bit through one of the damaged gunports. If I had to guess, I don’t think any especially weak points would be below the waterline.”
That wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. “So if we get her unstuck, and don’t incur any further damage in the process, we might sail out of here?”
“That’s a big if, Captain. If we have to go back through the storm, the damaged bits definitely won’t hold.”
But ideas already fired through Rowan’s mind. Logan let him indulge in the lofty heights of fantasy for a few moments before bringing him back to solid ground.
“Even if we can get it unstuck, the fall…”
“We’ll use ropes and winches and lower it down,” Rowan said.