“Trust me, I’d much rather be over there!” His blade sliced across his opponent’s chest. The man stumbled, and Ghost brought his pommel down hard against his temple. One clean movement that would knock the man out, sparing his life.
My chest swelled with something dangerously close to joy. Then my prosthetic leg buckled.
Metal screeched as gears ground together. I dropped to one knee, barely deflecting a strike that would have taken my head. My opponent’s eyes gleamed with victory as he raised his sword for the killing blow.
A wet gurgle replaced the sound of falling steel. The point of a blade erupted through my attacker’s chest in a spray of crimson. Ghost twisted the sword free, and the body crumpled between us.
He stood over me, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade. Those green eyes met mine, filled with something that made my throat tight.
“Good thing I didn’t say put onThe Black Wraith, right?”
He offered me his hand. For a moment, I simply stared at it, before I realized he wanted to help me up.
I gripped Ghost’s hand, calloused palm sliding against mine, sending an unexpected jolt through my chest. His grip was strong—a craftsman’s hands. Warmth spread from where his calloused fingers wrapped around mine. He pulled, steadying me as I tested my prosthetic. His other hand caught my elbow, supporting me with surprising gentleness. The familiar grind of failing mechanics made me wince. One of the pebble-grade fluxstones had given out—again. The leg responded now, but experience taught me this reprieve wouldn’t last. I’d need to replace it as soon as possible.
Our hands remained linked a heartbeat too long, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. The touch burned like lightning, making my breath catch.
I pulled away, deliberately avoiding his eye. The warmth of his touch lingered on my skin like a brand, unfamiliar and unsettling. These past years onThe Black Wraith, I’d kept everyone at arm’s length—safer that way, cleaner. No attachments meant no complications, no unwanted questions about my past, and definitely no one getting close enough to notice the ways my prosthetic betrayed me.
But now here I was, pulse racing from a simple touch like a teenager. It caught me by surprise. Not since Eric—not since before I lost my leg and became the Reaper—had I let anyone close enough to touch me like that, let alone taken anyone to bed. After what happened with Eric, I’d locked that part of myself away, convinced that desire was a weakness I couldn’t afford.
These impulses needed to stay firmly out of reach, where they belonged. The Reaper didn’t need companionship. The Reaper didn’t crave the warmth of another’s touch.
This redhead with a nice smile wouldnotbe my undoing.
I cleared my throat, then forced myself to focus on scanning the rest of the ship. Around us, the battle had tilted decisively in our favor. Our crew had the remaining merchant aeronauts cornered near the bow, their weapons lowered in surrender. Patty and Greybeard were working through securing them, tying them up. The tang of gunpowder faded on the breeze, replaced by the metallic bite of blood and sweat.
I surveyed our victory, cataloging injuries and damages. A few of our crew sported cuts and bruises. The merchant vessel’s sails hung in tatters from our cannon fire. She’d still be able to limp to the nearest port, though below us was only ocean and wasteland for miles.
Ghost shifted beside me, a slight warmth radiating from him, combating the chilly wind whipping across the deck. He’d proven himself today—saved my life, even. The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest.
Ghost’s gaze drifted to the dead man at our feet, the color draining from his already pale face. His sword trembled as he pressed his lips together.
“First ever kill?”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
My mind flashed back to my own first—a smuggler who’d drawn steel when we boarded his vessel. I’d been seventeen, fresh-faced and eager to prove myself worthy of the Eldritch fleet uniform. The memory of steel piercing flesh, of watching light fade from another person’s eyes, haunted me for weeks. But I’d squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and pretended the weight of taking a life didn’t crush my soul. The other aeronauts had clapped my back, called me a proper soldier. None saw me cry that night in my bunk.
Ghost’s free hand clenched and unclenched at his side.
“Thank you.” The words came out rough, raw with wonder. This stowaway—this innocent man I’d threatened and berated—had just saved my life. The realization humbled me, cracking through my carefully maintained Reaper facade.
“We’re even now.” Ghost lowered his blade, exhaustion lining his face, but a hint of pride breaking through. “You saved me from becoming Viper’s kraken bait, and I saved you from becoming mincemeat.”
I barked out a laugh, studying his form, the way he held the sword with practiced ease. “If Viper had known you could handle steel like that, he’d never have suggested it. Maybe you should give some of our crew lessons—Butcher could certainly use them.”
A smear of blood marked his cheek, stark against his pale skin. My hand twitched with the urge to wipe it away, to feel if his skin was as soft as it looked. I clenched my fist instead, forcing my attention to the red stain spreading across his biceps.
“Your arm needs attention.”
“It’s nothing.” Ghost shrugged, but the movement made him wince.
“That’s not nothing. You’re seeing Stitches.” The words came out more like an order than concern, and I winced at myself.
His jaw set in that stubborn line I was becoming too familiar with. “I’m fine.”
“Ghost—”
