“That’s enough, lad, ” he orders. “Go help Saint with the holes in the hold.”
While Lark hurries away, I grab the plate like a wildling and start shoving the food into my mouth. I pay no attention to how I must look. The hardtack is – well –hard, as expected, but not moldy, which is a pleasant surprise. The fish is surprisingly good. Naturally, I love fish. It was all I ate until my seventh year. My mother insisted, though my father wasn’t pleased with it. I don’t remember why exactly, but I assume he wanted me to know a life beyond that of a siren. We eat it raw, not cooked ashumans prefer, and the head is the most delicious part of all. I swallow the whole thing with hardly any chewing.
Grim chuckles and leans against the bars.
“I will bring you more later. We have plenty. The crew will first eat the fresh food we organized in Cantora.”
“Organized?”
“Stole.” He answers with a shrug and holds back a smile.
I lift my gaze to meet his hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprised by how weak the words sound.
“We leave the Sea of Crowns in a few days, and we expect heavy currents when passing the Intermaria. I believe the captain wants to speak to you before that. But I must warn you, lass, his mood is foul.”
“Is he ever in a good mood?” I challenge him, and regret it in an instant.
He straightens and glares at me as if I’ve insulted him personally, instead of his captain. For a heartbeat, he seems angry, until his eyes soften. Blinking, he turns his gaze away from me, his posture relaxing. When he meets my eyes again, a faint smile tugs at his mouth. I release a quiet sigh of relief.
“Sometimes, lass. I hope you get to see that someday.”
I nod and watch his back as he leaves, then spot the leather strap at my feet. He didn’t put it back on. I consider using my hum, but it wouldn’t get me far. We are in the middle of the Sea of Crowns, and if he is right and we are near the Intermaria, there’s no island in sight.
So I sit and wait, as an obedient prisoner would.
Bored out of my mind, I count the ship’s frames. “Sixty-five,” I murmur as I lie flat on my back. Hours must have passed since Lark brought me the food, and I have resorted to desperate measures to keep myself alert.
“Bored already, little fish?”
Damn it. That’s not the voice I want to hear. His voice. The Captain. Sable. I sit up and turn toward him, standing in front of my moldy cell. My pulse jumps, the air catching in my throat. By the Seas, this man has a talent for scaring me. He wears a black coat, and a tricorn hat sits on his head now, casting his face in shadows. His white linen shirt hangs loose, giving me a glimpse of his broad chest, and I hate the way my breath stumbles at the sight. Charms that look like they’ve been carved out of bone dangle from necklaces layered around his neck. There are dark circles under his eyes, a deep purple, as though he didn’t get much sleep last night. His dark, messy curls rest atop his head like a crown. If he weren’t a pirate or my captor, I might consider him handsome. Unfortunately, he is both. And the sight of him sets me alight with pure ire.
“There is very little to keep a prisoner entertained in this disgusting cell, I’m sure even you understand that.” My voice wavers, but I keep my chin high. “There is no need to keep mecaged like an animal. I mean no harm, and I will leave your ship as soon as it is possible to do so.”
I rise slowly to get somewhere near eye level, but he’s still so, so much taller than me, so I tip my head back to look at him and give him my best glare.
“What makes you think we will make for a port again?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face. There it is again, the teasing tone that makes my skin crawl.
I narrow my eyes even more, but he doesn’t look away, not even for a second. Heat creeps up my neck, but I don’t blink first. I can’t resist the challenge flickering in his eyes.
“What makes you think I need a harbor? I will gladly walk the planks once the shore is in sight.”
My response surprises him; his eyes widen for only a heartbeat before he snaps back to the same stern expression.
“I do not negotiate with my captives,” he says. “But you will answer my questions when I bloody ask them.”
He turns to grab a nearby stool and pulls it toward the cell, but instead of sitting immediately, he studies me first, as if something about me does not sit right with him. His gaze traces my white hair, my scales, before lingering on my wounded foot. If he notices the blood-stained makeshift bandage, he does not comment on it. Only then does he lower himself onto the stool, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely clasped. He looks composed, but there is tension in the line of his shoulders that tells me he is not.
“Who cut the mooring line?” he asks, leaning forward slightly.
“I don‘t know what you mean,” I answer with care. If I tell him who cut it, it will only raise even more questions.
His jaw tightens.
“You were on that dock,” he continues. “My ship doesn’t drift free by accident. Someone cut her loose.” His eyes narrowslightly. “I saw you running away from a few men through the window in my cabin.”
Unwanted memories creep into my mind, of their voices, their boots drumming the deck behind me to the rapid beating of my heart.
