“Zoric—”
“I said no.” He rises, pulling me up with him, his grip on my hand almost painful. “You’re not offering yourself as bait. Not for this. Not for anything.”
“Then how do we get her to commit? She’s cautious. Suspicious. She won’t send her entire fleet into unknown waters based on our word alone.” I step closer to him, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “She’ll send one ship. Maybe two. And when they don’t come back, she’ll burn Dreadhaven and leave. We need her greedy enough to commit everything at once.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Show me another way, and I’ll take it. But we don’t have time for perfect solutions. We have twenty-four hours and five wounded fighters and a merchant queen who wants me in chains more than she wants treasure.”
His jaw works. I watch the struggle play across his features—the tactical mind warring with a deeper need, one that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the space I’ve carved out in his chest over the past week.
“We do this as a pair.” The words come out rough. “You go to her flagship, I go with you. She wants collateral; she gets both of us.”
“That’s—”
“Non-negotiable.” His hand slides to my hip, pulls me against him. In front of everyone, without hesitation. “You don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I don’t sacrifice myself for you. We live or we die, but we do it as one. That’s the deal.”
I should argue. Should point out that risking both of us is a worse strategy than risking one. Should remind him that he has people depending on him, a coast to protect, responsibilities that don’t disappear because he’s found someone worth dying for.
Instead, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
It’s brief. Hungry. A claim as much as a comfort. When I pull back, his pupils are blown dark and his breathing has changed.
“As one,” I agree. “But if this goes wrong?—”
“It won’t.”
“If it does.” I press my palm against his chest, feel his heart beating too fast beneath my touch. “Promise me you’ll get them out. Thorne, Brek, the others. Promise me you won’t let my debt burn everyone else.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his heart.
“I promise.”
The night passes too quickly.
I spend it in Zoric’s quarters, wrapped in blankets that still carry his scent, listening to the sounds of Dreadhaven preparing for a battle it can’t win. Outside, his people are shoring up defenses, stockpiling weapons, doing everything they can to look like a fortress ready to fight.
It’s theater. All of it. A performance designed to make Gyla believe we’re willing to try anything—including leading her to treasure that doesn’t exist.
Except the treasure does exist. And what waits beside it is worse than anything her mercenaries can imagine.
The fire in the small brazier has burned low, casting the room in shadows that dance across the blackstone walls. Salt crystals gleam on the stone—tears of the keep, Zoric called them once. The walls weeping for everyone they’ve lost over the centuries. Right now, they seem particularly bright.
Zoric stands at the window, silhouetted against the pre-dawn gray. The muscles in his back are taut with tension I can see even from across the room. He hasn’t slept. Neither have I. The hourshave passed in quiet conversation and quieter touches, neither of us willing to waste what might be our last night on rest.
His hands rest on the stone sill, the same hands that have held me, fought for me, pulled me back from the edge of oblivion in theFortune’s depths. Scarred knuckles and callused palms that somehow know exactly how to be gentle.
“You’re thinking too loud.” His voice carries a rough edge born of fear, not fatigue.
“I’m thinking about Finn.”
He turns. In the dim light, his features are hard to read—the heavy brow, the strong jaw, the chipped tusk that speaks to violence I’ve only glimpsed. But I can feel his attention sharpen, the way it does when I mention the name of my dead lover.
“The curse showed me things in theFortune’s hold. Promised me things.” I pull the blanket tighter, though this chill comes from inside me, not the air. “It knew exactly what I wanted. Knew how to use my guilt against me.”
“The guilt about living when he didn’t.”
“The guilt about everything.” I stare at my hands, scarred and calloused from years of work and running. “He died because I made bad choices. Because I pushed when I should have waited. Because I wanted things badly enough to ignore warnings that should have stopped me.” A breath. “And now I’m about to make the same kind of choice again.”
