He yowls as Hook stomps into the room, his cutlass out as he whirls and yanks the door away from Smee.
“What are you doing in here?” Hook bellows.
Smee holds his nose, which is now bleeding profusely. “Captain, I was just interrogating the prisoner. I thought she might—”
“Out!” Hook’s yell seems to put air into my lungs, my breathing slowing as I blink away the dark spots floating in my vision.
The pirate scurries away, and Hook slams the door, hitting Smee in the ass with it, then kicking it all the way closed. He drops his cutlass and comes to me, his own nose a little bloody as he cups my face. “You all right?”
“I’m …” I’m too shaky to actually answer that question. But I’m not too rattled to notice Hook is still shirtless, a fine sheen of sweat on his toned body. He’s supposed to have a grotesque hook for a hand, for crying out loud. He’s supposed to have a giant feather plume and questionable taste in 18thcentury clothing. But that’s not him at all. Not even close. Wendy was full of shit.
“Damn Smee.” He shakes his head. “Meddling twat.”
That brings a weak smile to my face. Something about the way Hook talks is soothing. He’s got that odd mix of English and Scottish, and when he says colloquially filthy words, they sound so … interesting.
“Come, lass. Have a seat.” He leads me to the bed, but I stiffen when he tries to sit me on it.
“All right.” He lets go of my hand and walks to the wall beside the window, then crosses his arms and leans back. “Sit down. I’ll stay right here.”
“Thank you.” I let my knees go and sink to the bed.
He glances at the door, his eyes narrowing. “Goddamn bellend.”
I snort a laugh, half amused at the word, half amused that I know it means dick. “I think he was just trying to protect you.” Now that the haze of fear has cleared, I can see it a bit more objectively.
“He’ll need protectionfromme if I see him anytime soon.” He glowers. He’s good at that—glowering.
“I was just taken off guard. He came in here, and it made me think of—”
“You don’t have to say the bastard’s name, lass. It’s as dead as he is.”
I nod, finally feeling my lungs getting full. When I rise, Hook uncrosses his arms. “Stay there,” I tell him.
He smirks. “Is that an order?”
“Sure.” I go into the bathroom—and avoid looking in the mirror—grab a cloth and wet it. When I return to him, I reach up and dab it along the bloodied edge of his nose.
He lets out a slow breath and puts his hands behind him like a soldier standing at ease.
“Does it hurt?” I keep wiping away the blood.
“Which part?”
“What do you mean?” I wipe the last of the blood from him.
He takes the cloth from me, our fingers touching for a few moments longer than necessary. “Nothing, lass. You should get some rest. I can have Widow bring your supper.”
“No way. I’m tired of being cooped up in bed.” When I look up at him, I realize I’m too close. Way too close. But I can’t seem to move away. He’s been drawing me toward him from the moment we met. Like a lighthouse—which means I should be getting as far away from him as possible. He’s danger, a rocky shoreline promising regret and ruin.
His gaze strays to my mouth.
I want him to kiss me.
I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I want to know if this thing between us is real.
“Lass.” His voice is a gravel pit. “If you keep looking at me like that …” His words trail away as he runs the back of his fingers down my cheek, then lower to my throat where they play at my collarbone.
