13. The Land War
THE LAND WAR
The moment the Fortuna Royale docked, the crew practically fled in their eagerness to descend on the lush, tropical island to sell their plunder and buy whatever their hearts desired, whether it was booze, food, or flesh.
Forty taverns, she heard them say of the pirate haven. And sixteen hundred harlots.
There was one church, its wooden steeple rising over crowded dirt streets lined with homes and businesses. Perhaps she’d go there and beg for forgiveness, mercy, grace, and a miraculous way out of her predicament.
By the gangplank, Greyson handed out bags of gold while Hester minded a list of names and numbers. Cecily sat on a crate nearby, her legs curled to her chest and a pack slung over her shoulders, which held her coat and her own sack of gold.
She wouldn’t tell Hester about Copson’s threat.
Hester hadn’t even known Cecily was planning to leave, and now she’d never have to.
There was no way out, unless she somehow convinced Hester and Greyson to run with her—and quickly, because she had no doubt Copson would have his ways of knowing if someone fled.
And if he found them, he would kill them.
Slowly, probably. In front of everyone. In front of Jack.
Would Jack smile during her execution or glare at her to the bitter end? Maybe he’d carry it out himself. That would be a fitting end to their relationship.
He stood near Greyson, scowling while the last of the pirates collected their pay. He’d probably watch her even closer now to save face with his father and save himself and his friend in case she decided to run.
As soon as the last name was checked off the list, Greyson and Hester shouldered their bags and descended the gangplank.
Cecily slid off her crate and followed. Jack didn’t look at her as she trudged by, but she bore the oppressive heat of his gaze on the back of her neck as they wound through the floating docks.
She did her best to ignore it—and then forgot about it entirely as she stepped onto solid land for the first time in two months.
It was resolute, unmoving, and left her completely off balance. She stopped, staring at the ground as though it might tilt and buck to chase her back onto the ship.
Jack shoved past her, knife hilts glinting in the hidden pockets of his vest and the sheaths strapped to his thigh. “Keep up,” he grumbled. He didn’t look back to make sure she did.
Greyson led the way through the city. The streets were loud and already pocked with drunks and brawls despite it being just shy of noon.
The sound of coins and shuffling cards drifted from gambling houses and the smell of fresh meat and flowing ale wafted through doors.
Scantily clad women leaned in brothel doorways and batted their lashes at everyone who passed—though there were some who did not leer, who sat in windows high above the ground and stared at nothing as they waited.
Cecily already hated it here. Hated this island and its people. Hated how it made her feel sticky and itchy, as though every gaze that raked down her skin left something behind. She hated that she was stuck here out of love for Hester who looked so happy to be in a place that felt like hell.
Her past was taunting her, and she only wanted to run.
Jack and Greyson had drawn knives, which hung casually by their sides as their eyes swept over the buildings and the street ahead.
Their surroundings shifted as they moved through the city, and while there were still taverns and brothels and dens, now there were also men in blue uniforms with red cuffs.
“The Spanish have the island,” Greyson told Hester. “But so do pirates, so we have an understanding—we don’t kill them, and they can profit off our loot. For now.”
When the city fell away a half hour later, they came upon a two-story inn at the edge of a buzzing forest dripping with vines and the greenest leaves Cecily had ever seen. The street was mostly empty, and the men’s knives had vanished back into their sheaths.
Greyson led Hester inside, his face lit with excitement.
Cecily made to follow, her legs burning—she hadn’t walked so much in ages—but then Jack stopped.
He’d ignored her since they left the docks, and she’d done the same, content to pretend the wound on her heart wasn’t throbbing with every second that passed.
She would have continued ignoring him, but he snatched her hand as she passed. With a swift jerk, he dragged her off the road and into the forest.
Some small part of her heart lifted as she followed on aching feet, hoping he’d taken her hand for some other reason than to fight with her. It was a foolish hope, and she regretted even letting herself wonder.
When the road was out of sight and they were hidden among the trees behind the inn, Jack abruptly released her hand. She staggered and caught herself before she could go sprawling into the dirt.
Jack stalked a few paces away, the dappled sunlight playing over his broad shoulders as they rose with a deep breath.
“I tried to leave,” she said, bracing herself.
He whirled on her, his face torqued with fury. “Did you? Did you really try? And did that look like pulling my knife on Morgyn when we were very nearly off the ship?”
“Oh, now it’s your knife—”
“You just couldn’t help yourself,” he seethed. “Go ahead. Tell me she forced your hand. Tell me she was going to kill you. Tell me it was her fault and you had no other choice.”
If anyone had a right to be angry right now, it was Cecily. The last thing she wanted was to trail him around this infernal island—follow him, shadow him, and exist with him as a constant reminder that she was unsuitable for being anything more than his problem.
Shoving aside the hurt, she readied her claws and teeth, eager to tear into him. “No, I thought I’d pull the knife for fun because I love getting under your skin.”
“I gave you that knife to get you to comply, not to use against—”
“Ooh, I’m well aware of why you gave me that knife. But perhaps the sun’s boiled your brain so much that it never occurred to you why I might’ve wanted it in the first place.”
“You agreed to keep it hidden. You agreed to not draw attention.”
“How could I help myself when Thea was hanging on you like a buck-tooth curtain and poor ugly Susan smashed her wrist to get you to hold her hand?” she asked, her voice laced with acid sarcasm. “Oh, my dearest Jack, I need your attention so desperately.”
She wondered if she imagined the hurt that cut through his eyes a mere heartbeat before his face contorted into revulsion.
“You’re a snake,” he said. “A damn conniving viper.”
Hester had called her a snake the day before. She’d called herself one shortly after, and neither of those had hurt. But this time—Jack might have just as easily slugged her in the nose.
“Do you think I wanted to brandish your knife?” she demanded, her words trembling. “Did you think I wanted to lie to the captain who, by the way, didn’t buy it for a second, and now I’m in deeper shit with him—”
“No,” he said with an eviscerating laugh. “You’re in the deepest shit with me, because now I’m your warden again. Your manager, your punishment, your damned nanny because you can’t control yourself—”
“She pushed me!”
“I’m sure she did! You’re never at fault—how perfect you are!”
Her voice rose over his, releasing the vicious pressure building within her. “It’s my fault I pulled the knife, but I controlled myself, Jack, because I didn’t shove it through her neck!”
“Maybe you should have.” His voice dropped, leaving her fiercely aware of how her ears rang after shouting. “That way I wouldn’t be stuck with you now.”
Her breath caught. He actually wanted her dead, if only she’d broken the articles. Perhaps he had wanted it this whole time, and the moment she was no longer gracious and smiling or easy to control, she was nothing to him.
Her wicked heart throbbed.
Well, he was nothing to her either.
“You think it’s so fun for me, you stupid sea prince?” The space between them dwindled, her feet moving of their own accord. “You ply me with gold coins and knives and swords and sweet words, and I bend to your whims because I have no other choice. You humiliate me.”
He drew nearer too. “Well, there we are matched. You cut my face and make me wear the humiliation every day. You make me look foolish to my father, and then you pulled this nonsense with the knife.”
Their faces were close enough that she could feel his panting breaths and see the rings of silver around his blue eyes, narrowed in contempt. Mere inches separated their bodies, and the heat of him beat back the cold bleeding out of her.
“You should have told him the truth,” she said, her voice softening to something that might have been sweet, were it not for the venom in her words.
“That you gave me the knife. That you defied him.” She tilted her head, and maybe it was because she wanted to torture herself or hear him admit she wasn’t good enough, but she added, “You should’ve told him you gave it to me because you thought you could have me if you did. ”
His features cooled to indifference. “Darling Cecily.” He spoke with a lover’s dulcet tone, the same one that had turned her name to velvet and silk only a day ago. “Did you believe I wanted you?”
There was that odd pain again, just beneath her anger. She leashed it and stared back, steely eyed, readying her offenses. “What thought have I for a man who lords over me? What affection would I ever desire from a filthy Copson?”
A knife glinted in his fingers, pointed at her gut. She hadn’t seen him reach for it, but she flinched at the suddenness of its appearance. “Cross me again,” he replied, “and I’ll show you what a filthy Copson I can be.”
It should have stoked her vengeance, but she only felt the wound on her heart grow deeper.
It was his fault. Entirely his fault for making her this way, and she despised him for it.
She loathed that he had this kind of power over her.
Even now, he’d taken her hand to drag her into these trees—forced her here—and it hadn’t occurred to her to cut him again.
It hadn’t occurred to her to want to cut him.
“I hate you,” she said, pressure building behind her eyes—God, was she about to cry?
She kept her voice low for fear that anything louder might summon the tears.
“More than Morgyn and my wicked cousin, more than those men who would’ve forced me into their beds, more than Death for taking my father, or the man who withheld my bitter end so that I had to come here. To meet you.”
As soon as she said it, she was shocked to find it tasted like a lie. It wasn’t supposed to be one, but she felt it deep within herself like a chunk missing from her cold, dead heart—as though Jack had not only started to thaw it, but he’d cut out a piece and kept it for himself.
He was a thief. A filthy, rotten pirate. Because even after he yelled at her and looked at her with so much loathing, she could still look into his eyes and want him. She had grown to like him far more than she realized after seeing the beating heart behind his callousness.
She wished it were not so, so she lied again, hoping that saying the words would make them true this time.
“I hate you,” she hissed. Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes, and she knew she was doomed.
Jack stepped back, his cruel face even sharper in the shadows. She waited for him to say something, to deliver the cutting words she was sure he would savor. She wanted them, wanted him to declare he had only ever despised her and that she was right to hate him.
The words never came.
Though his eyes burned with contempt, he walked away, heading for the road through the break in the trees, his knives glinting dully in the low light. All of them were accounted for, as far as she could see. And though he’d just threatened her, his hands were now empty.