I draw in a breath, keeping my voice low, steady, to match her tone. “I told you I’ve hunted these artifacts a long time. Thatdoesn’t happen without… consequences. Yes, I’ve got enemies. I never said this was an easy sail.”
Gypsy’s eyes narrow, a tightness pulling her gaze. She uncrosses her arms, steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “How many more like them?” she demands.
I roll my eyes. For fuck’s sake. Straightening up, I lock my gaze with hers. “You want a list of every thug I’ve pissed off? Because I’ll tell you now, there’s too many to count. Is that enough for you,Captain?”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. Her voice lowers, each word clipped, steady. “You think this is a joke? You might have shared this ship with me, given me quarters and made me ‘captain,’ but this crew needs someone who knows what’s coming. And we’re both responsible for every soul we drag into this. Every fight you’ve picked along the way? Those aren’t justyourdebts anymore.”
Her words dig under my skin, scraping up a nerve I thought I’d buried deep. Responsibility. A word that used to mean something—before everything went to hell.
“Every fight, every enemy? That’s all they are—a means to get what we need. If you’re worried about loyalty, I’ll tell you now: anyone who can’t handle what we’re up against is dead weight. You might want them safe, Captain, but my aim’s survival, not sanctuary.”
But even as I spit out the words, there’s a bitter truth gnawing at me. She’s right. The burden of this crew—their lives, their debts—it’s a weight I carry, even if I refuse to let it show. The difference now is that I’ve got someone here to remind me of it, whether I like it or not.
“How many enemies, Rancour?” she presses, voice tight as iron.
The words cling to my throat, refusing to come out. I let the silence stretch, a defiant refusal in place of an answer.Gypsy’s eyes bore into mine, demanding… something. A flicker of understanding, maybe. But I can’t give her that. Not now, not ever. I’m not that kind of man.
“Guess,” I say slowly, forcing an ugly smile onto my face.
She scoffs, disappointment hardening her eyes as she steps back. “You really are a bastard.”
“That, I am.”
I feel a flicker of something sharp and unwanted—regret, maybe, or something like it. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we follow the compass, enter the first trial, and survive it. Whatever she thinks of me now is the least of my concerns.
I wait, hoping she’ll get tired of this exchange and walk off to steer us out of this harbor, but she lingers just long enough to get the last word.
“You’re a weak man, Rancour,” she sneers, shaking her head. “Only weak men hide behind cruelty the way you do.”
Finally, she spins on her heel and strides to the helm, her anger radiating like heat. I stand there as Ridley, Zayan, and Vinicola all stare. Zayan’s disgust is almost palpable, while Ridley’s look is more surprise—like he finally sees me for what I am. And Vinicola… damn him, he actually looks empathetic, or something close enough to make me want to hit something.
I grab my jar and shoulder past him, brushing against him with a glare. “Save your pity for someone who needs it,” I growl.
He flinches, but stays quiet. None of them stop me as I walk off, not even Ridley, who’s spent his life trying to keep me from self-destructing. Fine. Maybe he’s finally seeing sense. I’m not worth his loyalty—none of them should be wasting their time on me.
Let them judge. I’ve got no one left to disappoint but myself.
33
Gypsy
The compass jerks again—a stubborn, unpredictable twist, yanking us off course for the fifth damn time today. I grip the wheel harder, fingers tight enough to ache, and fight the urge to hurl the cursed thing into the sea. If it drags us off track once more, that might be exactly where it ends up.
Patience and I are fast becoming strangers.
“It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” Vinicola’s voice chimes in, almost dreamy. He’s sprawled on the deck, head propped on his hand, legs crossed at the ankles, with his songbook resting lazily on his knee. A satisfied sigh escapes his lips as he flicks his gaze between the compass and the endless stretch of water before us. “Left, then right, then left again. A real marvel.”
“Marvel’s not the word I’d choose.” My jaw clenches as I wrench the wheel to follow the compass’s latest whim. Around us, there’s nothing but endless blue, no hint of land, no ships on the horizon—not a single distraction in sight. Just a horizon that’s beginning to look like a mirage, staying exactly where it is no matter how hard we sail.
Normally, I wouldn’t complain. No ships in sight means no one’s following us. But I’m starting to think a battle would be a better use of time than obeying this maddening relic that can’t seem to decide where it wants to go.
Wind fills the sails, the ship slicing through the water as if pulled by the waves on purpose, yet no sign of progress—just the same wide, empty nothingness.
Vinicola hums to himself, scribbling something into his songbook. He pauses only to toss out another remark, his tone light and undisturbed. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Why would anyone set sail just to be tossed around like this? It feels a bit…disheartening, doesn’t it? Like we’re sailing in circles.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“Maybe we are,” I reply, gritting my teeth to keep from barking at him. My gaze flicks back to the horizon, hoping for a sign—any sign—that this isn’t just another dead end.
