Chapter 16
Inever did get to explore the cabin.
Once the seasickness took hold, there was no going back.
I stayed by that wall, dangling my head over the side in the most un-magvis-like fashion, until Harthon set me back in the center of the ship with a bucket to vomit into.
Even when there was nothing left in my stomach, it continued to spasm.
As the skies grew dark and I thought the misery would never end, exhaustion finally claimed me.
Even then, I refused to go below deck to sleep. Harthon knew this without asking and had Stefano bring up a bundle of blankets. I deliriously watched as Harthon wrapped me in them and situated two heavy chests beside me, so I wouldn’t slide around as I slept. Then I passed out.
I remembered all this as I slowly regained consciousness, hints of light filtering through my closed eyelids. The blankets around me were warm but lumpy, the deck hard on my back. The air smelled salty with hints of mildew from the ship.
My body wobbled as the ship rocked.
Gently.
I readied myself for the inevitable pitch and roll. It didn’t come. Neither did yesterday’s nausea.
I opened my eyes to see the mast extending high above me, the ivory sail billowing and full, an organized tangle of lines draping from fabric to wood. The end of the mast didn’t careen through the gray sky like it had yesterday. In fact, it hardly bobbed at all.
Stiff strands of hair fell across my face as I sat up, resting against one of the chests. Around me, the deck was fairly quiet. A few sailors worked, but their pace was relaxed. The captain was at ease behind the wheel.
The only real action to be seen was in the shirtless man lithely swinging his sword like an extension of his body, moving with fluid control between one maneuver and the next.
Muscles flexed with every twist and cut, the defined ridges of his arms and torso shifting in a captivating dance.
It was as if he and the sea were one in the same—dangerously powerful, effortless in their violence, entirely capable of ending you.
But where the ocean made me nauseous, Harthon tied my stomach in a very different type of knot. Especially when he was missing his tunic. And even more so when his low timbre traveled across the deck.
“You should be watching the horizon, not me.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke.
“I am,” I lied.
“Watching me?” He speared his pretend adversary and dropped his sword. “Well aware.” He faced me, the muscles of his abdomen bulging with each breath.
“I was watching you to learn.”
It was the same excuse I’d used a few weeks ago, when I’d stumbled upon Harthon training in the woods and he’d caught me ogling. The excuse sounded just as weak now as it did then.
Based on his self-assured smirk, he knew it. Closing the space between us, he asked, “And what have you learned?”
“That I’m not as far along in my training as I’d like to be.”
“And you needed to watch me to realize this?” He squatted, bringing all that golden, scarred skin close enough to touch. He smelled like man and salt and sweat, a blend that shouldn’t smell as good as it did.
I swept my hair out of my face and rubbed the crust around my mouth. My saliva was rancid from yesterday’s sickness.
“It seems so,” I replied lamely, angling my face away so he wouldn’t smell my breath.
“Then we remedy that.”
The last and only time I’d trained with Harthon, I’d become thoroughly acquainted with the ground. He was an effective teacher, but he was intense.
That intensity was intimidating, but it didn’t scare me away. No, what I feared was handling it while seasick. That, and an audience.
“Your sailors will see how inept I am. I’m supposed to be the magvis.”
“I’m not concerned about the sailors. They’re known for their tall tales. Anyone who believes their stories is a fool.”
Right. So I didn’t need to worry about gossip. Just my pride—and my ass, which would inevitably be covered in bruises. Neither was a good reason to decline his offer, especially with all the unknowns we were about to face.
“Don’t get upset if I accidentally vomit all over you,” I warned. “Though come to think of it, that’s probably a decent offensive tactic.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “The seas calmed overnight,” he revealed. “It’s calmer than I’ve seen it in years, actually. If you stop lazing on the floor, you can see.”
“I’m recovering, not lazing.”
Cautiously, I rose to my feet, half expecting a wave to send me flying. Nothing happened. My stomach chose that moment to gurgle, but it seemed to be more from hunger than illness.
My legs felt shaky as we wandered to the side of the ship, where I was met with waves that were significantly smaller than yesterday. They were missing all that angry texture, too, not quite smooth, but not wind-whipped.
“The storm must have ended,” I murmured.
“Yesterday wasn’t a storm.” When I looked at Harthon with surprise, he elaborated, “Those were typical conditions. If it was storming, we wouldn’t have set sail.”
For a moment, I questioned how much Harthon really knew about the ocean, because yesterday’s seas were most definitely storming.
A soft breeze coasted over my face, pricking my skin with its coolness. I eyed Harthon’s half-naked form. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Training while cold makes you stronger. Builds resilience and focus.”
“Maybe I should try it,” I mused without thinking.
His attention coasted to the lacing of my vest. “That would require you to shed some layers,” he drawled.
Heat flooded my cheeks. This was the second time he was teasing me within the span of minutes. And—as was always the case when he teased me—I was a blushing, flustered mess.
Except I wasn’t a mess. Not to him. I’d seen the way he’d looked at me that night in my bedroom.
I had power.
Over the state of our world, and over him.
I observed the gently rolling ocean, so new and foreign, and I did something entirely unlike me.
With a tug, I pulled my cloak free, letting it fall to the ground. When I started playing with the knot at the top of my leather vest, Harthon’s eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.
Harthon was never astonished.
I ate the expression up. But only for one second, because he quickly flipped the tables.
He was beside me, then he was directly in front of me, crowding me against the ship’s wall.
Grasping my wrists, he trapped my hands between our chests, his bare skin impossibly hot against my fingers.
In fact, his entire body was a wall of heat, seeping through my clothes and into my skin, settling low in my abdomen.
I tipped my head up to find him watching me, much like a predator might watch its prey.
“You don’t want to play this game, carella,” he murmured, voice pitched dangerously low.
I might have trembled against him. “Why’s that?”
His lips wandered to the shell of my ear. “Because if the sailors here saw your skin, I’d have to do something about it. And then we wouldn’t have any crew left to guide our ship.”
Oh.
The jolt of fire that zipped through my chest was completely inappropriate.
He’d just threatened to kill a bunch of people, and I was…skies, I think I wanted my tunic to disappear so my skin could be on his.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I managed, speaking to both myself and him.
“I’m aware.” His grip flexed, then he removed his fingers one by one and stepped away. “You need to eat something before we begin.”
Begin training. Not kissing.
Of course.
He glanced at my cheek. “I’ll have a bucket of fresh water brought up for you too, so you can wash.”
I touched my cheek and realized with horror that my mortification from yesterday’s seasickness was far from over.
Because what I felt was another splotch of crust on my face.
Here I’d been, fantasizing about us doing wicked things, with dried vomit on my face.
Not only had he seen it; he’d just pointed it out.
And now all the skin beneath that crust was undoubtedly bright red, highlighting the area in vivid color.
My mind raced for something to say, something witty, maybe, to distract him from my utter embarrassment. I came up empty, and then Harthon did something I’d never seen him do before. Something I didn’t even know was in his repertoire, because it was far too playful for his brooding personality.
He…winked.
Winked.
Then he left me standing in disbelief as he walked away and delivered orders to a sailor.
* * *
The winking version of Harthon was fleeting. By the time I was done nibbling at a hunk of dry bread and scrubbing my face raw, he was the serious, analytic trainer I was familiar with.
All that analysis was currently being directed at me as I performed the jabs, kicks, and strikes that I’d practiced hundreds of times. The ship wasn’t violently rocking, but it still moved beneath us, challenging every maneuver I did.
“You’ve improved,” was his clipped evaluation. His arms were crossed, a tunic hiding all that naked flesh.
“Callen had me working with weapons before the attack. Are we going back to that?”
He assessed me from head to foot. “Maybe,” he finally decided. “We have a week or less until we’re in First. Right now, the most helpful thing to do is continue to work with your natural strengths, not try to introduce new ones.”
“I’m pretty sure my only natural strengths are running away and dodging the occasional weapon.”
“If those were your only natural strengths, you wouldn’t have survived against those mercenaries in the garden,” he argued. “Tell me how you did it.”
Until now, he hadn’t asked for the story. I’d figured he’d gotten it out of Stefano and wanted to save me the pain of recounting it.
“I barely survived it. I don’t think there’s much there to work from.”
“Tell me anyway.”
From his implacable tone, he wasn’t going to let me evade this conversation.