Just before dawn, I returned to Alaric’s quarters, the ache in my limbs dull and pulsing like a second heartbeat. I stripped out of my damp tunic and washed in silence, using the chipped basin by the window and a rag that smelled faintly of sea salt and citrus oil. Every movement made my muscles scream, but I welcomed the pain.
It meant I was changing. Becoming something more.
I dried my face and reached for one of the thick towels near his desk when something caught my eye.
The decanter.
It sat where it always had—dark glass, heavy crystal stopper, half-shrouded in shadow. Something about it felt different. Maybe the way the light caught its edges. Maybe the way the liquid inside had receded—visibly lower than the first time I’d noticed it.
Curiosity prickled along my skin. I told myself not to. Told myself it was his. Private.
I was already reaching.
I eased the stopper free. A soft hiss of pressure escaped, and the scent hit instantly—copper and iron.
Thick. Unmistakable.
Blood.
My stomach twisted. Thoughts tangled together—Was it his? Someone else’s? Why keep it here?
I stared into the dark liquid, nausea curling low in my gut. I should have stopped. Should have replaced the stopper. Pretended I hadn’t seen it. Pretended this didn’t change anything.
The scent clung to me—iron and salt and something achingly alive. The stories I’d told myself about him began to splinter.
Pirate. Captain. And something far worse. Whatever answer I reached for wouldn’t be the right one.
A knock shattered the silence.
I startled, jerking back—muscles still screaming from training—and the decanter slipped from my fingers.
Glass hit the floor and burst.
Dark, thick blood spilled across the planks, pooling around my bare feet, soaking into the seams. The metallic scent of iron filled the room like smoke.
I barely had time to move before the door opened. Alaric stepped in—
And froze.
His gaze swept the scene: my half-dressed form, the blood-slick floor, the shattered glass.
And me.
Caught red-handed in the middle of it all.
16
Alaric
The Black Marrow
Mermaids have always been insufferably curious creatures.
Nerina stood beside my desk, barefoot and breathless, surrounded by a sea of shattered glass and blood slicking the floorboards. The decanter lay in ruins at her feet, dark liquid bleeding into the cracks of the wood. The scent of iron hung heavy in the air. She hadn’t moved. Her hand was still half-raised, frozen mid-act.
And the lantern—damn that lantern—lit her like some kind of wild, fallen star. Her skin was flushed, the curve of her collarbone kissed by gold light, hair still damp and clinging to her neck.
She looked up at me as I entered—guilt tightening her jaw, defiance flashing behind her eyes. And for a long, weightless second, neither of us spoke.
