Then, it hits me—something my mother used to say.“Vinicola…”she would smile, savoring her favorite wine,“your heart beats so loudly for everyone around you that sometimes people want to join in.”
“Do they want their hearts to beat in sync with mine?”I’d ask, watching her swirl the deep red liquid in her glass.
“Sometimes yes,”she’d reply.“But sometimes… they want to give a beatingtoyouinstead.”
She wasn’t wrong. My heart’s always been big enough to welcome everyone in—too big, some might say. And Nicoleta? She’s just another beautiful soul who found her place in it. Can I blame her? Not at all. But this whole crew chasing me down? Big misunderstanding, gentlemen, I swear.
“Miss Nicoleta told us everything, you rat,” Mr. Spit hisses, his eyes glinting with a kind of vicious satisfaction. “She begged you not to leave her. Said you took the last of her money and ran off. Now there’s nothing to keep Dorian from flaying your hide.” He sneers, and I catch a glimpse of the other man—the quiet one—nodding along. He seems to be the silent-but-deadly type.
I swallow, hard. Nicoleta, you little mastermind. You really spun a tale this time.
“Wait, wait!” I lift my bound hands as high as I can, hoping the gesture buys me a few seconds. “Look, I can explain. Nicoleta might’ve… exaggerated a little.”
“Exaggerated?” Mr. Spit repeats, his sneer growing. “She was half-starved when we found her. Crying your name, you bastard.”
Oh, Nicoleta. Her talents for theatrics are as impressive as my own. “I didn’t take her money. If anything, she took mine! I helped her escape. She wanted freedom from dear ol’ Dad. Who was I to deny her that? Live a little, right?” I try to shrug, but it comes off as more of a nervous twitch. “B-but she was the one who wanted to part ways! Said she could handle herself! I mean, who am I to argue with a lady’s independence?”
“Your lies are filthier than you,” he spits, and this time—yes, more spit lands on my cheek.
I chuckle. Filthy? Hardly. Look around at the rabble on this ship—unkempt pirates with their greasy hair and stained clothes. Me? I’m practically pristine by comparison. My shirt, pure white and tucked under a leather vest. The top few buttons undone, giving just a hint of neck and chest—just enough to show them I know how to make an impression. And let’s be honest—he knows it too. I bet it eats him up inside.
Jealousy is an ugly thing.
“You dare laugh?” The quiet one steps forward, and suddenly, the humor dries up in my throat. My palms are sweating against the cold iron of the cuffs.
“N-no, I…” I stammer. Impossible. Words never fail me. Not now, Vinicola.If words can’t save you, nothing will.I clear my throat, struggling to summon my usual charm. “I was just thinking—uh—about how highly Nicoleta spoke of her father’s crew. Always mentioning how brave, how noble you lot are.” I flash a smile, though it feels weak. “And look at you now! Caught me, the big bad guy. Impressive, huh?”
No, that’s not it. My usual charm is slipping like sand through my fingers.
The quiet man, still staring at me with eyes sharp enough to cut, pulls out a knife. A long, wicked blade. He holds it up, the metal glinting as the dim light catches it. My breath catches too.
He’s coming closer. There’s a glint in his eyes. Oh, he really wants to kill me, doesn’t he?
“Hoist the anchor,” he tells Mr. Spit, not breaking eye contact with me. “We’ll deliver Dorian the body before it spoils.”
My mouth goes dry. My tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
“What about the merchants he sent with us?” Mr. Spit asks, turning slightly.
“Their ship’s faster. They’ll catch up. Sound the trumpet. Let them know.”
“Aye,” Mr. Spit replies.
I watch them, heart racing, chest tightening with every word. But then, something changes. The ship creaks, and I hear the drip of water hitting wood. A steady rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Her voice comes before I see her.
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” she says, her tone rough but cool, like the sea itself.
From the shadows, she emerges, water dripping from her long, wet curls onto the deck. Her grey shirt clings to her soaked form, and I can’t help but gasp—a reflex, really.
For a split second, her eyes meet mine. There’s a twitch in her eyebrow, and one corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly before she shifts her glare back to Mr. Spit. Both her hands are outstretched, pistols gleaming, one pointed right at Mr. Spit’s ugly mug, the other aimed... more or less in my direction.
Not ideal.
“Who the fuck are you?” the quiet guy finally groans, shifting like he’s preparing for a fight. “Some kind of friend of his?” He jerks his chin toward me.
Oh, no, mate. This wild beauty is definitely not my friend. I’ve never seen her before in my life, and trust me, I would remember.
