Scarface chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Not mine? Are you sure about that?”
Fabien’s voice turns downright icy. “I didn’t come back for a reunion. I’m here for business, and I don’t have time for petty grievances.”
He’s disgusted, practically glaring down at them like they’re a pile of rubbish he’s already sizing up for disposal. Terrifying? Yes. Weirdly reassuring? Also, yes.
Of course, I’d rather not see anyone’s blood spilled today. So, I swallow hard and muster my best, calmest tone. “Gentlemen, maybe we can all just calm down and—“
Scarface interrupts with a dismissive wave. “Shut it, lapdog. This isn’t your fight.”
So much for diplomacy. I was hoping to get through the day without unnecessary violence, but fate clearly has other plans. And maybe—just maybe—I inch a little closer toward the bloodbath now.
My nature leans to kindness, not to seek out strife,
But trouble seems to find me, a shadow in my life.
Now among these cutthroats, silenced like a ghost,
Perhaps I wish for trouble to haunt them the most.
In shadows they have thrived, where honor has no place,
But let the trouble find them, and meet them face to face.
May their whispers turn to screams, their laughter to regret,
For the trouble they’ve unleashed, they shall never forget.
I bite my cheek. Oh, what I’d give to shake off these ridiculous thoughts, to swat them away like flies, but here I am, frozen in place. Stuck between a simmering anger—undoubtedly thebyproduct of far too much pirate influence—and a very real, very unhealthy fascination with what’s about to unfold.
“Fight?” Fabien snarls, each word a cold promise. “I’ll give you a count of three to get the fuck out of my sight.”
Oddly enough, I almost like this side of him. Fabien Rancour may be certifiably mad, but his brand of madness offers me faith.
He’s going to take out these poor souls, isn’t he?
“One,” he barks, his face shifting, his entire being morphing into something unholy. The man’s got enough rage fermenting in him to fuel a tavern for a year, and it’s all spilling over now, transforming him from pirate to beast, with a wild gleam in his eye that can only be described as feral.
“Two,” he growls, voice so low it rumbles through the air, making it vibrate with barely-contained violence.
And before he even gets to three—sching! His weapon meets Scarface’s neck with such a clean cut it’s practically art.
The man drops dead.
31
Zayan
Istride beside Gypsy, both of us heading toward the harbor, when a sharp, gut-wrenching scream splits the air from somewhere ahead. My heart drops, and I glance at her. She’s already looking at me, eyes narrowed.
“We know that voice,” she says.
“Vinicola,” I whisper.
Before the echo fades, we’re both off, sprinting. Gypsy surges ahead, and I follow, the pulse of adrenaline firing through my veins.
Is Fabien hurting him?The thought digs in deep, spreading dread in my chest.Was this all some sick setup?
Some pirate I am, leaving him in the claws of that freak. Fabien’s as trustworthy as a sea snake, slithering around with his own agenda, always on the edge of snapping. The moment I saw those eyes of his, I knew he’d bring trouble. That glint, the one that says he’d toss a man overboard as easily as blinking, should’ve been warning enough. Now I’m regretting every second I didn’t yank him back.
