The world feels far away, muffled by the linen pillow my face sinks into. Lavender. It wraps around my senses like a dream. There's warmth beneath my cheek, a faint sea breeze brushing across my skin. I can hear it outside the nearby window—the hush of waves, the caw of sea birds, the rhythm of tides I didn’t know I missed.
For one perfect moment, I pretend I'm safe. Then I move.
Pain lances through my midsection, white-hot and furious. I hiss, gasping, and my hand flies to my stomach. I'm in an oversized linen shirt. It comes to my knees, and as best as I can, I bring it up around my waist to touch my skin. Under my fingers: smooth skin, tender but whole. A scar. That's all. Just a scar.
I'm not dead. Athanasius hadn’t lied. Bastard.
But damn him for not mentioningthiskind of pain. My body feels like it was drop-kicked by a mountain. I groan, curling in on myself.
“Oh, you’re awake. Nice,” a voice drawls from the room, amused and infuriatingly chipper.
I roll over—or try to, at least. Every muscle protests like I've insulted its ancestors. Ambrose strolls barefoot across the room like he owns the sea and the sky. He’s wearing fitted gray slacks with far too many buckles to be practical, and a cream shirt with puffy sleeves open at the collar. A black crystal swings fromhis neck, catching the sunlight but casting no rainbow. His hair, a ridiculous shade of rich violet, falls behind one ear as he grins at me. Handsome prick. He sets down a tray, and I hear silverware clank together.
Now, when I saw him the first time, I felt like SpongeBob glaring at that glass of water in Sandy's dome. Thirsty as hell. Now? I'll kill him, as soon as I can sit up without feeling like I'm being ripped in half.
“I brought you food and drink,” he says, his voice smooth as satin and just as smug. “How do you feel?”
“Youstabbedme, you son of a bitch,” I growl, and when I try to sit up, pain makes a liar out of me. I scream, collapse back onto the mattress, and glare at the ceiling like it's responsible.
Ambrose laughs. Actuallylaughs, the bastard, brushing his hair back with fingers tipped in silver rings. “Ididstab you. I apologize—but I knew you wouldn’t die.” He gives me a slow blink, lashes fluttering like he’s auditioning for a romance novel cover. “He didn’t tell you that, did he? Yes, you’d heal fast. No, it wouldn't be painless. The body remembers.”
He pulls a wooden chair close to the bed and sits with all the casual grace of a man who’s never faced consequences in his life. Typical. None of the bedside manner and all of the audacity. “I’m sorry for that,” he adds, almost sincerely. “But you’ll heal. And while you do, we can talk. Get to know one another.”
“I don’twantto know you,” I snap. “I knowenough. You stabbed me.”
“Darling, please. A minor thing. You shattered my staff and freed the Primordials. Let’s call it even.”
I don't answer. I stare up at the ceiling, praying that it'll collapse on him and do me a favor. “Take me back to Athanasius.”
“Never,” he says without hesitation, standing to fluff my pillow like this is some deranged spa. “You shattered the staff, but I have someone who matters to him. This is better.”
I grit my teeth as he helps me sit up, handling me with annoying gentleness. He grabs my arms and places them around his neckwhile staring in my eyes!His arms wrap around me and I'm disgusted by the fact that he smells so good. Musk and something cedar, a little dark, maybe whiskey or bourbon. His hair has alight floral scent. Smiling at me, he moves away and grabs the tray before setting it over my lap. Fruit. Bread. Tea. Whatever this is, it isn’t a dungeon.
“What’s your deal with him?” I ask, trying not to flinch as his fingers adjust the pillow behind me.
“Eat,” he says. “I’ll talk.”
I narrow my eyes. “I can’t trust you.”
Ambrose chuckles. “Ione, if I wanted to hurt you—again—I’d have you chained in my basement listening to your screams.”
Fair point. “You could be sadistic,” I mutter. “Heal me up just to tear me apart again.”
He waves a hand. “We’re going to be near each other for quite some time, my dear. I’d rather you be compliant and friendly. Comfortable, even. Then he smirks. That full-lipped, arrogant thing that probably works on every poor soul who crosses his path. “Besides, we may end up in bed together.”
I stare at him. “Never.”
He pouts, playfully. “Ah, I thought men with power were your type?”
I sip the tea, stare him dead in the eye, and say coolly, “Menwith power, yes. Unmedicated narcissists playing pirate dress-up? Not so much.”
His grin falters for half a second—and it’s the most satisfying moment I've had since I woke up.
“I should let you know,” Ambrose says, crossing one long leg over the other like this is some fireside chat instead of a post-stabbing brunch, “you’re mycaptive, not myprisoner. There’s a difference.”
I raise an eyebrow, unamused. “Yeah? What’s the difference? One comes with turndown service?” I am eating him the fuck up, I know it. I can see that twinge on his forehead wrinkle.
He grins, all teeth and trouble. This man has probably used his beauty to get and do everything he has ever wanted. “A prisoner has no value. A captive—ah,you—has potential. Influence. Leverage. And significantly better accommodations.”
