Glaring at him, I rubbed my wrists as I rolled away from him. He let me go.
In the moonlight, I saw the amusement on his face as he propped himself up on his elbow, balancing my father’s blade on his thick fingers. Was he mocking me?
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around one wrist as I watched him warily.
“I will not beg you.”
“We’ll see,” he quipped.
In one movement, he flipped the knife about so he held it by the blade, the hilt facing toward me as he rolled onto his back.
“Here, love. It’ll make ye feel safer.”
Hardly daring to believe my luck, I snatched the weapon back.
“This was my father’s.”
The Stormseeker—Vrogul—stacked his hands behind his head.
“Good. It belongs in yer hands, no’ my boot.”
And then the arsehole closed his eyes, giving every impression of sleep.
I sat there on the side of the bed in a fierce sea raider’s home, clutching my father’s blade, and trying to swallow down the jumble of confused emotions in my stomach.
What was I going to do?
