Especiallywhen it came to Caspian Vayne.
My protectiveness derived from a complex internal well, graying the lines between desire and second-nature obsession. On one hand, I saw a captain, one whose very soul and essence I wished to hold, because he’d done so with me so many times. But, on the other hand, there was something far more complex; something otherworldly.
My bloodstream thrummed with the overwhelmingneedto walk alongside him, even if it meant stepping into one of the mouths of Yxalune, the Seven-Headed Terror of the Deep. It was almost as if fate, or even the gods themselves, had etched my instinctive urges to protect him in the marrow of my bones.
“Last chance, Levitte,” I growled, pressing the sharpened point into her skin. “You help the captain of this ship, or I gut you and throw you overboard like nothing more than the chum we feed to the sea life.”
Through gritted teeth, she hissed, “Even if Iwantedto helphim,your lot are senseless enough to traverse the open waters without an herbalist on board, which means?—”
“What do you need?”
“What?”
Exhaling heavily, I clenched my jaw. “What. Do. You. Need. To. Save. Him?”
She rolled her eyes. “Knowing what Malrik likely laced the blade with, I would need both Quassia and Ammiadamon, which are raritiesand often only held by those who know of herbal properties and their effects in healing. You know? Like anherbalist?”
“Well, it’s a good thing our medic keeps every plausible herb on hand, isn’t it?” I jeered, lifting an amused brow. “Which means that you, little devil, have no excuses left.”
“You can’t just?—”
Grabbing the collar of her shirt, I ripped her from the wall, shoving her toward the cell door. “I am confident you know how to use your legs, so please, for both of our sakes, start walking.”
CHAPTER 16
SkillfulHealer
ROHEN
Syoran’s broad shoulders swallowed the corridor, my gaze fixating on his long, silken hair tumbling down his back as fluidly as the waves we sailed on. He walked with an air of confidence, a stride I’d become well-acquainted with during my time in the brig. It was an earned pridefulness, clearly displayed by the deckhands who practically bowed as we passed on the way to Caspian’s quarters.
The title of co-captain implied an unwavering amount of respect and clear access to the captain’s cabin.
Resting his palm flush against the smoothed oak door, he nudged it open without a knock to warn of our arrival.
The hinges groaned, as if the room itself were a sanctuary that had gotten little foot traffic. Whether that was because of a lack of intrigue or a stated command, I genuinely didn’t give a fuck. A space that housed someone as vile as Caspian Vayne was one I had no interest in exploring. But somehow, as Syoran stepped out of my way, every assumption I’d held about my captor seemed to vanish like the water off a sun-soaked deck during a peaked summer afternoon.
A large mahogany desk greeted us first, books stacked in an organized pattern on its surface. Alongside their towering height sat amap, unrolled and marked in a manner I’d never bothered to understand. The compass that rested on top of the worn paper glistened beneath the golden rays seeping in through the three windows on the far side of the room, its bright sheen a confirmation that it was crafted from pure gold—likely a stolen heirloom of some rich bastard. Directly across from the spot I knew Caspian sat frequently, based on the worn leather of the deep crimson chair, were bookshelves. Each level was filled wall to wall, pointing to a hobby I never would’ve expected from a man of his caliber.
He knows how to read and likes it?
Nestled up against the glass, dressed in blue curtains, was a lounge area, various pillows positioned and dusted as if he were expecting company. In the center sat a table, adorned with a lantern and a couple of rolls of tobacco, giving away another ill habit of his. Beneath the area of emanating comfort lay a rug that spoke of regality, woven with high-quality thread and an intermixing of reds and golds. My eyes ventured past its intricate patterns, spotting a mattress in the very back corner of the quarters, resting atop the carved wooden cove of the bed frame.
And within it was a pale and near-lifeless Caspian Vayne.
Cursing under my breath, I moved with an instinct that completely opposed every feeling I harbored toward him. The oxygen flooding my lungs seemed to cease its flow with the daunting realization that Malrik really had tried his damndest to kill him, and the ache that threatened to still my heart had me firing off a slew of vulgarities to the gods for whatever the fuck it all meant. It was as if seeing him there, his chest nearly still and his skin clammy, unearthed a buried care I’d never harbored for anyone.
My bare feet padded against the smoothed planks beneath them, a rhythmic drum that warned of my approach and undoubtedly would send Caspian reeling. The mere thought of his disgust about my forced decision to cater to him was the only thing that seemed to keep me sane as the distance between us closed, a distance that I hadn’t experienced since the night he’d purchased me from Seirdra’s Veil. But, as the tension-filled gap ceased completely, he remained motionless.
Fuck.
Ignoring the bedside tray that carried two jars full of Quassia and Ammiadamon, alongside a steaming pot of tea, a singular cup, various other spices, a mortar and pestle, liquor, and a needle and thread, I moved to him—the man responsible for the hellish reality I’d awoken in. With a shuddered inhale fueled by pure unease, his dark oceanic scent greeted me as I placed the back of my palm against his sweat-ridden forehead.
“He’s burning up,” I said to myself, everything and everyone else vanishing the instant I’d stepped foot into that godsforsaken cabin.
Gods, what is it with this man? He is so maddening, and yet, in the same breath, so fucking irr?—
My soul nearly jumped out of my skin as Syoran’s voice filled the room. “Please.” Desperation. Raw and unfiltered desperation. “What do you need? How can we save him?”
