Hel squeezes my hand, pulling me from my thoughts. “Don’t look now, but your boyfriend is coming.”
I make a face and look over my shoulder, spotting Joran stalking our way. A stained and dirty burlap bag hangs from one hand, a crystal glass of whiskey is clasped in the other.
Hel gives me a wide-eyed look, raising her sharp brows as she glances around the deck like she’s looking for a place to hide. “I’ll… just go find Rhonin.”
The moment she turns her back on us, Joran drops the bag at my feet. It lands on the oaken planks with a thud. “A gift. For you.”
Frowning, I study his silver eyes, his unreadable face, searching for a glimpse of a clue. “A gift,” I say, dumbfounded. “For me.”
“There’s no one else on this ship that I would do as much for, I can assure you.”
“But we hate one another.”
He laughs. “Do we, now? I wasn’t sure.”
“The sword to your throat the other morning wasn’t a clue?”
He smiles at the memory. “You were also straddling me. My brain received mixed messages.”
Curious, I shake my head and look him over, trying to see what I’m missing. Because something is so off about Joran these last weeks. Something I cannot pin down. Yet. But I will.
When I look at the bag, a nervous twitch tugs at my mouth. My heart beats a little harder, almost like my intuition knows what I’m about to see before my mind does. I bend down and open it anyway.
I lock eyes with those of a dead man whose blond head happens to be removed from his body. I’ve never met the Northland Watch’s admiral, but I know, without a doubt, it’s him.
Stunned, I glance up at Joran and swallow the thick knot in my throat, trying my damnedest not to get sick. I killed Eastland soldiers at Winterhold and on Winter Road too. I’ve seen far worse than a blank, swollen, blue face and a bloody neck. But for some reason, staring into those terrified eyes gets to me.
“You… You brought me Rooke’s head?”
Joran leans back against the railing and crosses his booted feet at the ankles. “You said you wanted it.”
I just stare at him, blinking, utterly perplexed. “What of Vexx?”
Joran shrugs and takes a sip of his liquor, the liquid shining amber in the lantern light. “You didn’t mention him. But in all truth, I looked for the general. I just couldn’t find him.” He rolls his eyes, inwardly. “For some reason, my senses aren’t so good these days.”
All I can do is close the bag, get up, and keep my shoulders squared as I walk to the railing beside him, thankful for the cool air on my face. He picks up the bag and tosses it overboard into the sea.
“Does Alexus know?” I ask, and he nods.
“I don’t owe him anything,” he says. “Not even an explanation. But he saw the bag.”
“Ah,” I reply. “Well, you might owe him nothing, but I owe you a kiss.”
When I turn my head to brazenly meet his stare, his argent gaze is bright as liquid metal. Leaning in, he slips his cool hand across my neck, beneath my ear, his fingers in my hair, his thumb grazing my cheek. This close, I can see the azure witch’s marks rising from behind his collar, and I can smell the warm, rich liquor on his tongue and the cold on his skin. I like it. That crisp scent of water and winter mingled with the sweetness of whiskey.
He lowers his stare to my mouth and tightens his fingers in my hair. Gods, I’m stupidly ready to press my body against his and kiss his face off when he draws back, his hand slipping away.
“Another time,” he says, his voice a rasp before he chugs another drink and swallows hard. “When there aren’t so many watchful eyes.”
The pressure of anticipation that had built inside me moments before eases as I look around the deck. Our group are all below, prepping the hold and cabins for sleeping. Alexus is with Terrowin, having what I’m certain is a colorful conversation. The crew Joran somehow bribed into staying on board have brought out their tin cups and flagons of ale. Some stand near the helm, but a few sit with Zahira and Callan on empty cargo crates that never had the chance to be offloaded. Every rugged, sun-bronzed face looks irritated or confused, but the good Captain Osane, with a smoking pipe dangling from her mouth, seems to keep tensions suppressed as she withdraws a deck of cards and deals a hand.
There are no watchful eyes. Awkward as that feels given it was an excuse for not kissing me, neither of us leaves.
Joran turns and leans onto the railing, his elbow touching mine. He offers me his drink, and I gladly accept, draining the remains. Smiling at the empty crystal, he pulls a metal flask from inside his gray and gold jacket and fills the glass halfway.
“The fleet,” I say, changing the subject. “We have to get past them.” That’s only part of the battle, I know, but the only one I can think about right now.
He motions to the white night around us and stuffs his flask back into his inside breast pocket. “You don’t think we will? We’ve at least ten hours of night. In this fog, those sailors will never see us. I’ll navigate this ship right past them.”
