Alaric caught him by the collar and hauled him back with brutal ease. There was a sickening, wet sound—brief, final—and then the man collapsed, throat opened, eyes already glazing as blood poured through Alaric’s fingers.
Silence fell heavy and thick.
Before I could process it, a hand seized mine—cold, slick with blood.
I looked up—and there was Alaric. Alive. More than alive. The weakness that had dragged him to the brink moments ago was gone, scorched away by something dark and ravenous. His eyes found mine, pupils blown wide, glowing with a hunger that was no longer careful or restrained. This was the first time I’d seen him like this—unleashed, instinct bare, the predator no longer pretending to be tame. There was something brutally intoxicating in the way he looked at me now. Violence coiled tight beneath his skin, barely leashed, and I felt it hum through him when his grip tightened, possessive and sure, pulling me flush against his chest. He was shaking—not with weakness, but with control.
Relief slammed into me, dizzying and overwhelming, tangled with heat I didn’t bother to deny. I didn’t pull away. I let him hold me there, let myself be claimed by that feral focus, by the certainty blazing in his eyes.
Alaric pressed the dagger into my palm, the hilt warm, the blade dripping.
Then he moved—swift, decisive—lifting me and turning toward the docks.
“I did try to warn him,” he said quietly as he carried me toward the ship, his voice low, edged with threat. “He decided to test me…”
27
Nerina
Shadeau
Alaric didn’t protest when I steered him below deck—too worn to fight me, or too stubborn to admit he needed the help. His quarters swallowed him in shadow, the heavy curtains already drawn tight against the sunlight. I lingered a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, before closing the door.
My wrists still ached beneath my sleeves, angry and raw—but pain was nothing new. I’d scraped coral, burned scales, sung through exhaustion until my throat bled. Whatever those men had used, it hurt… but it hadn’t killed me.
I’ll deal with it later.
My thoughts began to spin. A plan—one Alaric would never approve of—took root. The sun would be up for at least another eight hours, and he’d be tucked away in his quarters the whole time. I could slip back into Shadeau while he slept, and by dusk,the Eye could already be in my possession. I’d be back on the Black Marrow before he even stirred.
He couldn’t be angry once I had it. If I told him my plan, he’d stop me. He’d never let me face this alone.
Better ask forgiveness than permission.
I had no idea where to begin looking for the Eye—or Maître Vesper. I needed a plan. A real one. I couldn’t just waltz into the city; it was dangerous. I know that now. The vendor was dead, but there were hundreds more like him, waiting. Still, I couldn’t give up. There was too much at risk.
I forced myself to think past the pounding in my head. Shadeau was a maze—charging in blind would be suicide. I needed a way that wouldn’t draw attention. Somewhere to start my search without every cutthroat and thief sniffing me out. Vesper wouldn’t be sitting in the open; men like him thrived in places no one wanted to look.
The brothel. The markets. The gambling dens. Somewhere in that tangle was the Eye.
If I could find the right whisper, the right person willing to talk for the right price, maybe I could get close without ever showing my hand.
I’d need a better disguise this time. Something that hid my face, my hair, my mark. I couldn’t let my emotions blaze across my expression or let that damned crescent betray me again. One slip, and I’d be walking straight into the leviathan's jaws.
Quiet as the tide at slack, I slipped back into Alaric’s quarters. He was sprawled on the bed, pale but breathing steady, one arm thrown over his face to block the faint daylight leaking through the shutter cracks. I padded to the trunk at the foot of his bed, lifting the lid just enough to rummage inside.
My fingers closed around a length of silk—deep purple, soft as water—and one of his wide-brimmed pirate hats.
Perfect.
I knotted the scarf low to shadow my face, pulled the brim of his hat down to cast me in deeper shade, and strapped the dagger to the inside of my boot. I slipped off the gangplank and into the warren of streets, the salt-stink of the docks giving way to the briny reek of the fishmonger’s alley. The sun had barely cleared the rooftops when I slipped away—which meant I had hours, not comfort. Enough time to move. Not enough to be careless.
The air cooled as I ducked into the fringe of the small forest between the docks and the city. Damp leaves whispered underfoot, branches knitting overhead to shield me from the rising sun. I moved quickly along the narrow, root-tangled path winding toward the city, each step pulling me closer to danger—and to the Eye. The hairs along my neck prickled; I couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. Fear coiled tight in my chest, but I had to do this.
There was no turning back now.
By the time the bells marked midmorning, I’d been laughed out of three markets and lied to twice. Each rejection tightened the knot in my stomach—but I kept moving.
Four left. Four hours to find the Eye and get back to the Black Marrowbefore Alaric realized I’d vanished—and before the city decided to finish what it had started. And so far, I've found nothing.
