“You don’t have to carry it alone.”
The words scrape out of me. She goes still, her hands frozen in her hair, her eyes searching my face.
“Zoric.” My name, soft and uncertain in a way I haven’t heard from her.
“I meant what I said last night.” I close the distance between us. Two steps. Her chin lifts as I approach, but she doesn’t retreat. “Whatever happens with Gyla, whatever happens with the salvage—you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
“That’s dangerous talk.”
“It’s the truth.”
Her hands drop from her hair. Settle against my chest, fitting into grooves I didn’t know existed.
“I don’t know how to do this.” The words barely audible. “Trust. Stay. Build instead of running.”
“Neither do I.” My hands settle on her waist. Draw her closer. “But I want to learn. With you.”
She rises on her toes. Her mouth meets mine—soft at first, questioning. I answer by pulling her flush against me, deepening the kiss into heat that burns through the cold and the exhaustion and the impossible odds waiting for us.
This isn’t the collision on the beach. Isn’t the comfort of last night, two wounded people holding each other against the dark. This is deliberate. Chosen. Her tongue slides against mine and I forget the charts, the debt, the hostile stares of my own people.
Her. This.
“CAPTAIN!”
We break apart. Thorne’s voice echoes down the corridor—urgent, the tone that means trouble.
Aviora’s breath comes fast, her lips swollen, her pupils blown dark. My hands are still gripping her waist, reluctant to release her despite the interruption.
We climb back to the Great Hall. Thorne meets us at the entrance, her expression grim.
“The dive equipment’s handled,” Aviora says before Thorne can speak. “We’ll have enough.”
“Good. Because we’ve got bigger problems.” Thorne gestures toward the harbor. “One of Gyla’s ships just launched a longboat. Eight mercenaries heading for shore.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s not supposed to make contact until the deadline.”
“Maybe she got impatient. Or maybe—” Thorne’s eyes cut to Aviora. “She’s sending a message.”
I look at the woman beside me. The woman who’s reorganized my salvage operation, repaired my equipment, and kissed me in the flooded depths of my ruined fortress.
“Then we receive it.” I reach for the cutlass across my back. “Side-by-side.”
The mercenaries don’t attack.
They deliver a crate to the harbor quay—polished wood, brass fittings, the kind of craftsmanship that costs more than most sailors earn in a year. Then they row away without a word, their silence more threatening than violence.
Inside the crate: a dress. Silk and velvet in deep blue, sized for a woman of Aviora’s build. A note in elegant script:For our meeting. I do appreciate when my investments present well.
Aviora’s face goes carefully blank as she reads it
“She’s playing games.” Anger roughens my voice. “Trying to remind you that she thinks she owns you.”
“She doesn’t think she owns me.” Aviora sets the note down. Her hands are steady, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “She knows I owe her. While she probably has thousands in gold on her boats.”
I pull her close. Not passion this time—protection. My arms wrap around her, and she leans into me with an exhaustion that goes beyond physical tiredness.
“In the morning, we dive.” My voice rumbles against her hair. “We find enough treasure to make Gyla Murker choke on her silk dresses and brass-fitted crates. And then we figure out what comes next.”
