I keep my thoughts to myself and spin on my heel, sprinting across the rain-slicked deck. My boots slip slightly, but I don’t stop until I’ve slammed the cabin door open. Inside, the cramped space is a mess of charts, trinkets, and the personal junk of those two idiots I threw into the sea. I dig through their garbage, tossing aside a compass, a sextant, until my fingers close around what I need—the cold brass of a spyglass.
I’m back on deck in a heartbeat, snapping the spyglass open, aiming it at the ship bearing down on us. It looms into focus, and my stomach twists.
“You bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
“Miss Captain?” Vinicola’s voice cuts through the wind, just as thunder rumbles in the distance.
I bite my lip, tasting salt, and clench my fists so hard it hurts. The storm’s rising, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy, but I’m already halfway to fury. “Ever heard of the Crimson Marauders’ right hand?”
Vinicola blinks, brows knitting in confusion. “Who?”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” I snap the spyglass shut with a sharp twist. “Because it looks like Zayan Cagney has joined forces with whoever the hell’s coming for you. And they’re not playing nice. I count at least twenty cannons on that ship.”
Vinicola goes white as a sheet, his hands clutching at his pale hair, eyes wide with panic. “Gods above…”
“Hate to break it to you, Vini, but there are no gods coming to save us. No gods at all.”
It’s just the two of us against a fucking crew.
10
Zayan
Keeping up with Gypsy Flint? Might as well try to catch the damn wind.
The sea’s gone mad, unraveling second by second, as if coming to life just to spite me. The moment she leapt into that cursed skiff, making a beeline for the schooner near the shoals, I knew—nothing good would come of it. Gypsy Flint doesn’t wait for anyone. Least of all me.
“Let me take the helm!” I bark, pushing past the man clinging to the wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. His eyes are wide, hands trembling. The storm has him in a chokehold, and the poor bastard’s never seen anything like this one before. Fuck, neither have I. “I’ll catch her!”
My heart hammers as I watch the schooner bounce on the huge waves, almost daring the sea to break it in two. The anchor barely cleared the water, and Gypsy’s already lowering the sails like she’s challenging fate itself.
God-fucking-damn her.
Of course she’s not sitting out the storm. Why would she? Gypsy Flint thrives on chaos—drunk on it, setting the world on fire just to watch it burn.
Does she even know how much coin the prisoner she’s holding is worth? Does she realize she’s about to paint a target on her back in every port of the Whisperwind Sea? Fuck... how much trouble can one woman attract?
Every muscle in my body tightens, and I curse myself for falling behind. I swore to Silverbeard I’d keep her safe, swore I’d stay close. But here I am, chasing her across angry waters, barely keeping up.
Just last night, everything seemed fine when she stormed off Medusa’s Gaze, clutching her belongings like her life depended on it. I watched her hit the docks, and I made sure Silverbeard saw me, so he’d know I was following. He gave me a single nod—eyes glinting, his face hard as stone.
I tried.
She spent the night on the beach, so quiet I thought, just maybe, she’d given up on that damned compass. Maybe the fire in her had burned out. Maybe she realized this wasn’t some grand adventure—it was a death wish.
Yeah, right.
With the first light of dawn, she was up like a shot, racing toward Roche’s side of the island, moving faster than I could blink. I had to stick to the jungle to stay unseen, but by the time I reached Old Bayou, she was already on the dock, eyes locked on the horizon.
And then? All hell broke loose. The locals slowed me down, eager to chat up a Marauder. They heard the rumors about me and Gypsy already. By the time I shook them off, she was rowing toward the schooner, halfway through the shoals. Two figures were tumbling overboard as I hit the docks, and I knew I was out of time.
But luck was on my side—sort of. I latched onto this ship, sturdy enough and fast enough to give me a fighting chance. Why sort of, though? Well, the crew wants Gypsy dead.
There’s a high-value prisoner stashed below, worth enough to buy these men new lives. They need him alive, which is the only reason they haven’t thrown me overboard. They’ve been paid handsomely to bring him back, and they’ll crush anyone who gets in their way.
Of course, I told them I’d help. What choice do I have? Said something about her crossing me on land and needing the retribution, and they let me in.
But these aren’t your usual cutthroat pirates. They’re the pretentious privateer types—played by the rules until the rules stopped paying. Now they take odd jobs from the rich and ruthless, chasing coin wherever it leads. This whole mission of theirs? It’s just another payday, a merc job dressed up in fancy sails.
