“Make her bleed in that song of yours, and maybe I’ll help you.”
His response is instant, his grin widening. “Deal.”
“And make me terrifying in your tale,” I add, my voice dropping low, dangerous. “I want to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares to listen. Make them regret ever crossing me.”
Again, no hesitation. “Deal.”
I nod slowly, feeling the satisfaction settle deep in my chest. “Good. Shake on it, or I’ll gut you.”
He’s still smiling as we lock hands. Mine is rough, calloused from years of pulling ropes, gripping blades, and surviving. His is soft, delicate in a way that doesn’t belong on a pirate ship.
But still, he holds on like he means it.
Having a song written about me? Not bad. Maybe if we make it through whatever’s coming, that song will find its way to myfather’s ears. Maybe Sizzle will have something new to spread around the taverns. Maybe their best tale will be one about me.
How satisfying would that be? Very. Very fucking satisfying.
That is… if they ever had the stomach to disrespect the Lady like that. Which I doubt. Still, one can dream.
“So how shall you help me onto the ship without me needing to swim?” Vinicola asks, stuffing his songbook behind the hem of his pants. As he does, I catch a glimpse of the gold emblem on the cover again.
Right. Good question.
How the hell am I going to do that now?
Halfway through my swim to the schooner, it hits me like a slap in the face—asking Zayan for a plank so Vinicola can sit pretty while I haul his ass to the ship is going to sound like the worst joke of the week.
I can already picture Zayan’s brow arching, that smug smirk tugging at his lips, probably muttering something like, “A bard too delicate to get his feet wet? Sounds about right.”
But by the time I drag myself over the side of the ship and climb onto the deck, the smart remark I’ve prepared dies on my lips.
Zayan’s crouched by the railing, his broad back hunched over a repair job. He’s hammering something in with the hilt of his dagger, his movements steady, focused. It takes me a second to realize just how much he’s done. Patches of smoothed wood dot the deck like battle scars, and piles of debris—barrels, crates, pieces of rope—are scattered nearby, salvaged from below.
He’s been working nonstop.
“Hey,” I say, wiping seawater from my face as I approach.
“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, barely glancing at me. “Had a good night’s sleep?”
“Yeah. A bit too good, I’d say,” I reply, walking toward him.
Zayan doesn’t bite. He taps another bolt into place with a dull thud, securing the plank he’s been working on. “You needed the rest,” he says, his voice flat, not even bothering to meet my eyes. There’s no sarcasm, no edge. Just... tired. He’s so fucking tired, even his cocky bravado is stripped away.
I raise an eyebrow, my gaze sweeping the deck again. No wonder. He’s practically rebuilt parts of the ship by hand.
“You could’ve woken me up,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “That’s too much work for one person.”
Finally, he looks up, his eyes meeting mine. Shadows deepen the lines around them.
“You needed the rest more than I needed the help,” he says simply. Then, he turns back to hammering the last bolt into place.
For a second, I don’t know what to say. I have never seen Zayan like this. Truth be told, there are many sides of him that I haven’t experienced. We’ve only ever met for one reason, and there was no room for seriousness in that. No actual challenges. No work. So this... this is new.
I crouch down next to him, watching his hands as they work—fingers caked in grime, knuckles cracked from exertion. The deck creaks beneath us, but his focus never wavers. “Still,” I mutter, breaking the silence, “you can’t do everything alone.”
“I don’t plan to,” he replies, his hands steady as he tightens the last bolt. “You’re going to steer us into the waters. Vinicola will help you with the sails. I’ll rest then. Had to get a head start before my adrenaline wears off.”
I blink, half impressed and half irritated by how practical he is, even when he’s clearly running on fumes.
