Oh, this bitch did not just go there.
I lean forward, giving her a deliberate eyeful of my assets. "Honey, if you're worried about loose cargo, maybe you should check your owndeck," I smirk. "Seems like a few things might have shifted during your lastvoyageif you know what I mean."
"Aye, and ye best be keeping yer hands off 'em, wench. They're mine."
"For the love of Neptune, Izabelle, mind yer tits!" Finn spits, already glaring daggers at her.
I can practically hear her teeth grinding from here. Oh, this is just too much fun. I do so love ruffling the feathers of insecure skanks.
"What is this about?"Rhyland's voice floats into my mind.
I can sense his unease through our bond, the way his protective instincts are flaring up in the face of this unexpected development.
"Nothing, just a jealous harpy who thinks I'm out to steal her pirate orgy,"I fire back into his mind, rolling my eyes for good measure.
Rhyland scoffs beside me, shaking his head. He knows damn well I can handle myself, so he just leans back and lets me handle it. He’s got that look on his face, probably remembering how I handled Amara and her brand of bullshit.
Erik's eyes dart back and forth between Izabelle and me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth like he's desperately trying to hold in a laugh. He knows I won't just sit back and take shit from anyone, especially not some skanky pirate whore.
"I'm not interested in your men," I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "Maybe if you spent less time worrying about me and more time working on your own charm and wit, you wouldn't have to resort to petty intimidation tactics to keep your crew in line."
Izabelle looks like she's about to explode, her face turning an alarming shade of purple. I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears as she struggles to respond coherently.
"Enough, Izabelle," Gideon orders. "The lass is our guest. Treat her with respect."
Izabelle looks like she wants to argue but thinks better of it. With a final glare in my direction, she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.
Game, set, and match, bitch. Better luck next time.
Acouple of hours, a shitload of rum, and a whole lot of me wiping the floor with these so-called pirates later, I'm sitting pretty in the winner's circle and feeling damn good about my buzz. We've been yapping about this Siren's Lyre thing and why the Merfolk can't just swim in and grab it themselves.
These fishy folks have been trying to get their fins on this magical trinket for generations, hoping to use its power to boost their magical mojo. The thing is guarded by crazy puzzles and traps that have stumped them for ages.
This sea goddess Lyria gave the Siren's Lyre to the Merfolk's ancestors and pumped it with some seriously potent juju. But Lyria, being the crafty goddess she was, wanted to ensure no one could waltz in and snatch it. So, she set up this whole gauntlet of trials where the trinket is hidden.
These trials are designed to be impossible for any sea critter to solve. Apparently, you need some unique set of skills and qualities.
So, the Merfolk have been swimming in circles for centuries, trying to crack this code but coming up empty-handed every time. It's like the world's most frustrating underwater escape room.
I look at Gideon skeptically. "And what, Captian, makes you think I'm the key to snagging this little bauble?"
"Aye, lass. You said so yerself. You've got that fancy light magic mojo going on—Chosen One and all that jazz. So, why the hell not?" Gideon shrugs like it's the most obvious thing since rum and bad decisions.
I can't help but roll my eyes. "Oh, sure. Because being the 'Chosen One' automatically means I'm some magical lockpick for ancient underwater puzzles, right?"
Gideon chuckles, shaking his head. "You've gotta admit, it's a hell of a coincidence, love. The Merfolk have been trying to crack this thing for generations, and then you show up, destined and shit. Ye need a reason to meet with the Queen—here is your shot."
I guess there's only one way to find out.
I excuse myself from the table because my bladder is about to stage a mutiny if I don't hit the head soon. All that rum's gone to my kidneys, and they're unhappy about it.
As I'm weaving my way through the crowded tavern, the rum decides to sucker punch me right in the equilibrium. Suddenly, I'm a dizzy dame, stumbling around. I have to stop and grab onto a chair to keep from face-planting on the sticky floor.
Holy hell, that's some potent pirate juice.
After taking a moment to remember which way is up, I finally make it to the ladies' room and take care of business. Sweet relief. I feel much lighter and less wobbly as I return to the table.
On my way, I spot this gypsy-looking woman tucked back in a small room in the corner of the tavern with a spread of tarot cards in front of her. She's got that mysterious, fortune-teller vibe—long, flowing skirts, jangly bracelets, and a scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes are lined with kohl, making them look even more intense as they lock onto mine.
