Chapter Thirty-Two Before #2
Into his own cabin. Despite the circumstances, Cat almost laughed at the absurdity of it. All of it. Every second since she entered the Lyrian Sea, since she left Meridia. Since she looked up from her books to the world beyond.
“I—” Her mouth formed the apology, but Cat could not find the will to speak it. She knew she had taken something from Valerian, at least in the eyes of his crew.
He waited, expectant, still hesitating in the door frame.
Cat swallowed.
“I’m not sorry for what I did.”
His back foot slid, the rest of him stepping into the bedchamber.
“I would certainly hope not,” he answered, closing the distance between them with his usual weaving stride. Not quick, but easy, loping, giving her plenty of time to move if she liked.
She did not, her back to the gallery windows, the dancing light of sun on sea dappling Valerian’s face, until he was washed golden as his hair. He looked like some icon raided from a treasure ship, a statue of precious metals. But statues were still, and certainly did not move like Valerian Kane.
Tentatively, he caught her around the wrist, his callused fingers digging into her forearm. Her nerves jumped, a bolt of lightning going through her at his touch. He felt just like he had in the dream, somehow both rough and gentle, all at the same time.
Cat stared between them, not daring to move.
He worked the wet rag from her fingers. Then dabbed it in the basin, before returning to her face.
He moved methodically, wiping away the blood on her brow, her cheeks, her lips.
Even the corner of her jaw and down her throat.
But no further, no deeper, much as Cat wanted him to.
She stretched her neck, arching into his cupped hand as she had on the quarterdeck. Daring him to kiss her again.
Only to burn when the rag returned to her hairline, cleaning the last remnants of Ryman Rose from her face.
In that instant, Cat forgot the corpse of her husband out on deck, the hell of battle, Sara drowned, the Venerable sunk, and the Victorious overthrown. Forgot even herself, a fallen lady and a new widow, adrift with nothing but the horizon to hold her steady.
It was difficult to remember anything when confronted with the full weight of Valerian’s attention, his eyes wavering both green and blue, a color somewhere in between.
While he studied her skin, diligent in his work, Cat studied him. The old scars, new wounds. A scrape at the edge of his jaw, the only evidence of a saber that almost removed his ear a few days ago. Lines forming around his eyes, his mouth, proof of someone caught between youth and manhood.
It lasted forever and was over in an instant.
“That should do,” he said, tossing the rag to the floor and stepping back to look at his handiwork.
Cat flushed. His touch was lightning, even his breath a dancing fire over her skin.
But now he eyed her as a deck to be swabbed, a piece of coin to shine.
Bitterly, she wondered if he felt the burn of her at all, the way she felt the burn of him.
Whatever storm possessed him a few days ago had disappeared—if it had ever really existed at all.
There was no taquil to blame, but Cat’s head spun as it had in the Drowning Drink, the same bold and reckless sensation washing over her.
“You were right,” she said, squaring her shoulders to him.
That seemed to please Valerian, his teeth flashing in a half smile.
“Do go on.”
“There isn’t a place for me on this ship.”
And the smile dropped, his face a slate wiped clean. But he did not argue, for there was no argument to make.
Without thought, she reached out to touch his neck. Her fingers brushed over his scarred and tattooed chest as she did, before hooking onto the necklace lying flush against his sternum. Her old prayer bead spun on the chain, glimmering between them like a raindrop suspended in the air.
“I’m surprised you kept this.”
She did not miss how the rise and fall of his chest faltered, his breath catching in a way it had not even in battle, with a warship bearing down.
“Most of us keep trophies from our prizes,” he said, eyes blazing, the rough depth of his voice the only sound in the world.
Is that all this was? Another plunder? Another prize?
Good sense told her yes, and she dropped the chain, letting it fall back against the planes of his chest.
“First you rob me. Then you hold me ransom.” She tipped her head, curls falling. “What will you do the next time we meet, Valerian Kane?”
She expected him to laugh, to toss back his golden head and grin at her, to play the carefree captain.
Instead, his gaze sharpened, the tempest green threatening to pull her under.
He looked as he had on the Credence, when he kicked down the door to her cabin.
Burned and remade, she thought then. A true son of the Lyrian Sea.
“I’m more interested in who you will be when we do,” he answered, eyes flickering over her face.
“So am I.”
They lingered, staring, the smell of blood finally fading from the air. Until there was just Valerian again, the heat and salt of him. And the danger too. Cat wanted to touch him more than she wanted anything else in the world. But her hands did not move, and neither did his.
The cabin spun once more, the world shifting onto a new axis, with a new path ahead. Where it led, Cat could not say. But she was eager to find out.
It took all her will to step away, skirting around Valerian to get out of the cabin. She passed the desk, grabbing for the pistol without thought. Indeed, it felt good in her hand, a calming weight.
Valerian cleared his throat, stopping her in her tracks.
“I believe that belongs to me,” he said, eyes drifting to the adorned flintlock still in her grasp.
Cat glanced down, briefly startled by the gun.
He towered over her, but somehow she felt a little taller, a little more on solid ground. I am alive, Ryman is dead. The scales had not balanced, but they swung more in her favor, inching towards an even playing field.
“Of course,” she murmured, pressing the pistol back into his hand.
For a blistering second, his fingers enveloped hers. Again, she felt the jolt, lightning in its wake.
“May the sea always sing for you, Valerian,” she breathed.
He answered with a grin, too bright and bitter. She tried to commit it to memory, wondering if she would ever see him again. On what new horizon they might meet.
“May the sea always sing for you, Cat.”