Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Smee had pleasant names for everything, and his cutlass was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wriggled it in the wound.
“Idon’t know what your purpose is or what you could hope to accomplish by spying for Pan, but I assure you it won’t work.
” Smee’s words are clipped. He seems even more like an accountant now, his tone implying that I screwed up all the numbers and I’ll have to stay behind to balance the books.
“I’m onto you. You won’t be leaving here with any information.
Maybe the captain can’t see you for what you are, but I certainly can. ” He steps forward, menace in his gait.
I back up, but there’s nowhere to go. When I blink, I see Calico Jack, not Smee.
“Don’t.” I put a hand out in front of me as Sally flaps away from the windowsill. “Don’t come any closer.”
Smee’s eyebrows draw together in disdain. “Excuse me?” He puts his hands on his hips and moves to the middle of the room.
“Stay back!” I scream.
He actually jumps, his mouth dropping open. “I beg your pardon?”
It’s not Calico Jack. Calico Jack is dead. He’s dead. I can’t blink, because if I do, I see him.
“You’re not him,” I tell Smee. “You don’t look like him or sound like him.”
“Who?” Smee’s initial haughty tone has fallen away somewhat. Now he’s more perplexed than anything. “Who are you talking about?”
“Calico J-Jack.”
That gets his nose in the air quick. “As if I would ever be in the same room with that reprobate.”
“I was in a room with him.” I try to get air, but even though I’m breathing faster, I can’t seem to hold it in. It’s like there’s a leak where my courage should be. “He … He …” I get a flash of him leering at me, his hands on me. It makes me want to retch all over the lovely wood floor.
Smee’s face softens for only a moment. “Oh.” He steps backwards and keeps going until his back is to the wall beside the door. “Oh, I see. I didn’t realize you—”
The door bursts open, flying straight into Smee’s face.
He yowls as Hook stomps into the room, his cutlass out as he whirls and yanks the door away from Smee.
“What are you doing in here?” Hook bellows.
Smee holds his nose, which is now bleeding profusely. “Captain, I was just interrogating the prisoner. I thought she might—”
“Out!” Hook’s yell seems to put air into my lungs, my breathing slowing as I blink away the dark spots floating in my vision.
The pirate scurries away, and Hook slams the door, hitting Smee in the ass with it, then kicking it all the way closed. He drops his cutlass and comes to me, his own nose a little bloody as he cups my face. “You all right?”
“I’m …” I’m too shaky to actually answer that question.
But I’m not too rattled to notice Hook is still shirtless, a fine sheen of sweat on his toned body.
He’s supposed to have a grotesque hook for a hand, for crying out loud.
He’s supposed to have a giant feather plume and questionable taste in 18th century clothing.
But that’s not him at all. Not even close. Wendy was full of shit.
“Damn Smee.” He shakes his head. “Meddling twat.”
That brings a weak smile to my face. Something about the way Hook talks is soothing. He’s got that odd mix of English and Scottish, and when he says colloquially filthy words, they sound so … interesting.
“Come, lass. Have a seat.” He leads me to the bed, but I stiffen when he tries to sit me on it.
“All right.” He lets go of my hand and walks to the wall beside the window, then crosses his arms and leans back. “Sit down. I’ll stay right here.”
“Thank you.” I let my knees go and sink to the bed.
He glances at the door, his eyes narrowing. “Goddamn bellend.”
I snort a laugh, half amused at the word, half amused that I know it means dick. “I think he was just trying to protect you.” Now that the haze of fear has cleared, I can see it a bit more objectively.
“He’ll need protection from me if I see him anytime soon.” He glowers. He’s good at that—glowering.
“I was just taken off guard. He came in here, and it made me think of—”
“You don’t have to say the bastard’s name, lass. It’s as dead as he is.”
I nod, finally feeling my lungs getting full. When I rise, Hook uncrosses his arms. “Stay there,” I tell him.
He smirks. “Is that an order?”
“Sure.” I go into the bathroom—and avoid looking in the mirror—grab a cloth and wet it. When I return to him, I reach up and dab it along the bloodied edge of his nose.
He lets out a slow breath and puts his hands behind him like a soldier standing at ease.
“Does it hurt?” I keep wiping away the blood.
“Which part?”
“What do you mean?” I wipe the last of the blood from him.
He takes the cloth from me, our fingers touching for a few moments longer than necessary. “Nothing, lass. You should get some rest. I can have Widow bring your supper.”
“No way. I’m tired of being cooped up in bed.
” When I look up at him, I realize I’m too close.
Way too close. But I can’t seem to move away.
He’s been drawing me toward him from the moment we met.
Like a lighthouse—which means I should be getting as far away from him as possible.
He’s danger, a rocky shoreline promising regret and ruin.
His gaze strays to my mouth.
I want him to kiss me.
I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I want to know if this thing between us is real.
“Lass.” His voice is a gravel pit. “If you keep looking at me like that …” His words trail away as he runs the back of his fingers down my cheek, then lower to my throat where they play at my collarbone.
Just that little touch lights a fire inside me.
Something about him, about the way he looks at me like I’m more than just a woman caught up in a world where she doesn’t belong.
He looks at me like he’s hungry for me, like he knows me from some ancient world in another lifetime where the two of us were joined in every way two humans can be.
“What?” I move closer, my chest brushing against his as I tilt my head farther back. “What will happen?” I dart my tongue out and wet my lips.
His breath catches, and he leans down and kisses me hard, his hands going to my waist as he yanks me against him.
I squeak and grab his shoulders as he presses his tongue along the seam of my mouth.
When I open and he delves inside, my entire body turns into liquid.
I melt into him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he leans me back, his tongue stroking mine as he reaches down and grips one of my thighs, bringing it up to his hip.
When he turns me and presses me against the wall, I moan.
He swallows the sound, his rough kiss full of urgency and heat.
I’ve never been kissed like this. I don’t even know what it is.
It’s like another language, one that Hook speaks directly to my soul.
He devours me, sucking my tongue and gripping the back of my neck with his hand.
Angling my head, he tongues me deeper, a groan lofting from him as he presses his hard length against my sex.
I’m wet for him, my body open and wanting, begging for more from this man of nightmare and myth.
It’s wrong. Everything about him is dark and tarnished, but I want him all the same.
I can’t stop, not when he kisses me with a fierceness that turns my blood into lava and my mind into a writhing pit of filthy desires.
When he reaches between my legs and cups my sex, I whimper, and when he rubs my throbbing clit, I gasp.
He finally relinquishes my mouth and kisses to my throat, sucking my skin between his teeth, his rough beard scratching against my flesh.
What would it feel like on my thighs? I shudder at the image of him between my legs, his deep blue eyes on me.
“Hey, we’re doing a barbecue out back if you—” Widow’s voice dies away as she opens the door to my room.
Hook lets out a growl that’s more animal than man.
“Oh, shit.” Widow slams the door.
I take a breath and try to remember myself. But I can’t. All I can do is stare at Hook, at my savior, at my killer, at my avenger, at my kidnapper, at the man I can’t seem to figure out.
“I didn’t intend to … I …” He shakes his head, seems to collect his thoughts, then presses his palms on either side of my head as he leans toward me, towering over me with the darkest glint of desire in his eyes.
“Let this be a warning to you, lass. If you look at me like that again, I’ll have your knees pinned to your ears and my cock so deep in your sweet cunt that you’ll feel me for days. ”
I can barely catch my breath. “If that’s your version of a threat, you might need to work on your ‘scary pirate’ skills.”
That pulls a smirk from him, the temperature in the room lowering a few degrees. Only a few though, because I still feel the heat coming off him in waves.
“Then again, Peter might take that threat a little more—”
His face instantly sours. “I don’t want to hear that cur’s name.”
His quick wrath is almost like a slap.
I wince back, but he doesn’t give me any room.
“Afraid of me now that you remember him? Is that it?” His voice turns cold, hard.
I reach for any thought, any combination of words to defend myself. “Why do you hate Peter so much?”
His nostrils flare, his eyes igniting with blazing fury.
“Because he’s a vile, arrogant child who plays at being a god!
” He seethes. “A parasite that destroys everything and everyone around him. Because he brought you here. Because he stole you away and drowned you in this nightmare, his nightmare. Because he touched you. You.” His voice breaks, the pain and rage crackling like the glass of a broken mirror.
“Because he hurt you,” he finishes on a whisper, his lips so close to mine that we share breath and soul and roiling emotion.