A gasp escapes me, the heat creeping into my cheeks again. He thinks just because this is his cabin, that he can waltz in here and flirt with me. Well, he is sorely mistaken. After what he has done to me, hunting me across the ship just for the fun of it. Locking me up in a damp and miserable cell, only to come back and torture me later.
Clenching my jaw, I gather my gown and get to my feet, my movements sharper than I intend.
“No, thank you. I’d sooner take the cell than share a bed with my captor.” I curl my hands into fists at my sides until nails dig into my palms, threatening blood.
He doesn’t even flinch. He just looks at me, all calm and unbothered, like my anger barely registers.
“That looked different to me moments ago. But of course, you can change your mind,” he pauses, something registering in his eyes. “I see you took one of my treasures too.”
His eyes are on my gown, so I quickly smooth the folds of it using my hands in a defensive manner, suddenly aware of how thin the fabric is.
“Nightglass told me to take it. Mine was wet.”
“Right. About that other dress of yours,” his lips press into a line. “Who gave it to you?” Finally, he unfolds his arms and steps away from the bedpost. He walks toward the table with the pinned map on it and scans it, as if asking this question doesn’t sit right with him. His fingers tap once against the wood before going still. At least he seems less comfortable than usual.
I hesitate for a moment. I can’t blame any man of his crew, and it has become clear to me how much he hates dishonesty. I don’t want to provoke him again. My throat dries up. The truth it is then.
“The ghost,” I murmur and swallow hard.
His head snaps in my direction, his chest now rising and falling faster than before. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking beneath his skin, his mouth drawn into a thin line as if he’s forcing something down. I carefully watch his eyes, but they remain grey. That doesn’t keep my muscles from tensing, though. I brace myself without knowing why.
“A ghost?”
“I was visited by someone. There was nothing human about him. He came to see me last night and told me to ask for a new dress. Then the emerald one appeared outside the door when I was visiting Harrow.”
Sable curses under his breath and keeps his voice low. Then, he takes a bottle of rum from the table and opens it. He tilts his head back and swallows down a good amount of it. I can’t blame him. It’s been a long day, and he almost lost his crew to the sea.
“Don’t talk to him again. If he insists, tell him to leave you alone. Send him away. Loud and clear. You hear me?” His voice is serious and steady as he steps closer toward me again, the bottle of rum still in his hand.
It’s right next to where his knife is sheathed on his breeches. My stomach tightens. I swallow hard and peel my eyes off it to look at him again.
Our eyes meet.
“You hear me?” He repeats, his voice low.
Swallowing, I nod my head in agreement, though my pulse is loud in my ears.
“No, I want to hear you say it, little fish.”
“I won’t talk to the ghost again.”
“Good.”
He turns on his heel and walks toward another chest in the room, then begins digging through it with determination. Wood creaks and fabric rustles as he moves.
“You can have all the dresses. I don’t need them.” He throws a dress behind him, then another one. The fabric lands in a soft heap at my feet.
“My sister never likes what I pick for her, and her corals tear the fabric apart anyway.”
A pile of gowns starts to build up quickly. White gowns, pink gowns, and a lot of green and blue. Colors I haven’t worn in a long time. Then he grabs the pile and staggers over to me. With one swift movement, he thrusts the pile of clothes into my chest,
“Take it.”
I hesitate, my brows knitting together. This has to be a trick. Why else would he give me all of these clothes? Perhaps to make sure I don’t dig through his stuff again. But it could be what is becoming all the more apparent to me by the second. He is actually serious, and he wants to stop that ghost from offering me a dress again. Either way, it still catches me off guard.
He shoves the pile of dresses against me once more, urging me to take them. The weight of it surprises me. So much so that I have to lean back to avoid falling forward. I bet he stole them from fine ladies he met on his travels, maybe even princesses.
I am not sure what to say to him. I do not have much practice showing gratitude, considering the cards I’ve been dealt in life. “Thank… you?”
