“Isn’t it treason to defend Silverbeard’s opinions? You’re really walking a fine line, Cagney. Roche wouldn’t like that.”
“I’m not defending him,” he snarls. “I’m just—“
He hesitates, and something flickers between us, something fragile. For a brief moment, I think he’s about to say something that could shift everything, but when he speaks again, it’s worse than anything I could’ve anticipated.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Gypsy.”
The warmth in his voice catches me off guard, and I hate it. I hate the way my chest tightens, how his words seem to pierce through the walls I’ve built around myself. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I force myself to breathe, to push down the sudden flood of emotions I don’t want to deal with.
“No, you don’t,” I say, my voice colder than I feel inside.
He moves even closer, his breath brushing against my skin, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost tender. “But I do.”
I take a step back, needing the distance, needing air, needing space. Panic claws at my chest, and I don’t even know why. This was never supposed to be anything more than a distraction. I didn’t sign up for this, for feelings, forhim.
“Then you need to stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling, betraying me. My heart races in my chest, panic blooming like wildfire. “Because if you don’t, Zayan, we’re done. We part ways here.” For a moment, the world stands still. The night air presses in, thick with everything we’re not saying. I don’t dare move, don’t dare breathe, afraid that if I let him speak, if I let him get one more word in, I’ll crumble.
Finally, his voice breaks through the silence, barely more than a whisper. “What if I don’t know how?”
I meet his gaze, eyes locking with his, and for the briefest moment, I see something there—something raw, something real. I hate it. I really fucking hate it. Without another word, Iturn on my heel, pulling my daggers tighter around my waist, the compass in my pocket burning like a brand against my leg. I leave him standing there, alone in the moonlight, with nothing but the crashing waves.
I simply… run away.
3
Gypsy
Inever should’ve gotten involved with Zayan Cagney.
Looking back now, the whole thing feels like a mistake. Not just because of how it ended—though that could’ve been smoother—but because of the time I wasted on him. What seemed so right back then now leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth, like saltwater that never fully rinses clean.
But who am I kidding? The truth is, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was pretty damn good. And that’s probably what irritates me most. Every time we met, it felt like he burned all the bitter parts of me away, if only for a while.
Yet here I am, hacking through the undergrowth of this cursed jungle, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him. It’s over, and there’s no fixing it. The damage is done, and whatever we had is now nothing more than a mirage, gone the moment he thought he had the right to meddle in my business.
“Fuck!” I curse under my breath. That stupid, stupid man.
I push through another tangle of vines, more aggressively than necessary, trying to shove the memory of him out of my head. But it sticks. The way his skin glistened in the moonlight? Theway the faint light caught the sparkle in his eyes? I feel a flush crawl up my neck, but it only makes me angrier.
I pick up the pace, cutting through the underbrush with frustration driving every step. I want to exhaust myself, wear down the irritation, but no matter how hard I push, I can’t shake him. It’s like the jungle is full of ghosts, and his is the one that haunts me the most. I hate that. I hate him. And yet…
The rustle of the palms above reminds me where I am—surrounded by darkness, the jungle pressing in. This one has a way of crawling under my skin. It’s darker than usual tonight, the sky a deep, menacing navy just beyond the treetops. The night bugs are louder too, their constant hum drilling into my ears, making the sweat and saltwater clinging to my skin feel all the more unbearable. Everything here feels off, like the jungle itself is watching me, waiting for me to make a wrong step.
And maybe I already did. After all, getting involved with Zayan was mistake enough.
I curse under my breath, swiping a vine off my leg that sticks like it’s alive. There’s a film left behind, slimy and uncomfortable, but it’s not enough to distract me from the real thorn in my side. That perfect storm of a man who wasn’t supposed to mean anything more than a distraction.
But he did. He was supposed to be simple. Just a body to warm mine, a way to forget the endless cycle of feuds between our crews. I told him from the start, a year ago, what I wanted: no strings, no complications. Just us, defying everything we were supposed to stand for. It was fun. It was supposed to stay that way.
Now look at me. Stuck in this cursed jungle, late to meet my crew, and unable to get him out of my head.
I should’ve ended it sooner. Ended him, really. If it weren’t for his damn crew—those Crimson Marauders—I would’ve made sure he paid for ruining everything. But power is fragile in theWhisperwind Sea. Pirates like Zayan and his crew cling to it, and even a single misstep can throw everything into chaos.
And I, despite how much I want him dead, know better than to invite that chaos.
Unlike other seas, we don’t see an upturn of new blood rising up to claim the waves. No, the old crews—the powerful ones—cling to their dominance like barnacles on a hull, stubborn and immovable. Pirates like Silverbeard and Roche have etched their names into this ocean, dividing the influence in half and making it damn near impossible to tip the scales without sending everything spiraling into chaos.
It wasn’t always this way, though.
