The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Eleven

Margrete

Bash escortedMargrete back to her room. He’d remained in silence for most of the dinner, allowing the others to fill the void with their own noise. She’d done much the same, occasionally conversing with Adrian, who was clueless to what was concealed beneath her flowing sleeve.

Margrete rushed up the remaining steps. The hallway leading to her room seemed longer than she remembered. Eyeing it wearily, she continued her punishing pace, forcing the pirate to keep up with her long strides. Even if he were these people’s leader, he would continue to be a rogue pirate in her mind. That title suited him more than king.

The misty entryway neared, and Margrete halted inches from the churning haze. She kept her back to the king as she waited for him to open the portal and allow her access. The seconds ticked by painfully, but Bash never raised his hand.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she barked, keeping her face forward. All she wanted was to retreat to the privacy of her chambers and prepare for the night ahead. The more she thought about scaling the damned palace, the more her pulse raced. “Open it,” she commanded, spinning on her heels and finally giving him her attention. The bastard was leaning against the wall, a devilish smirk lifting his lips as though he found her amusing.

She wanted to smack him.

He shoved off the wall, his long limbs carrying him forward until he was inches away, his head tilted down to look into her eyes. That cursed smirk never left his lips. Lips that she found herself staring at.

“I seem to have found myself distracted. You’re rather quick for someone so small.” He raised a mocking brow. “My sincerest apologies.”

Something told her he was far from sorry. “Fine. Just do…”—she waved her hand in the air—“whatever it is you do and open the damned door. I find myself preferring solitude to your company.” She shot him a saccharine smile.

He crossed his arms against his chest, and his sea star tattoo slid into view from beneath his sleeve. “I’ve been told I’m quite charming. Though I must say, I don’t often find myself in such a position.”

“Where women are eager to run from you, that is?” she asked sweetly.

“They’re usually eager for other things, princess.” Bash leaned down to whisper into her ear. She shivered as his breath caressed her skin. “Perhaps I could show you.”

For a moment, she froze, lost to the sensations running up and down her spine. The flutters in her belly. How her heart thumped savagely in her chest.

She regained her senses quickly.

“As if I’d ever be with a man like you. You son of a—” She released a string of colorful curses at him, each more vivid than the last. Her words would’ve made even the hardiest of sailors blush.

“Ah, that mouth is so very wicked,” he taunted, retreating a few steps back when she raised her hand. He missed her slap by a mere inch.

Undeterred, Margrete reached out for him again, craving nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smile off his handsome face. Just one blow, she prayed, knowing full-well how satisfied she would be if her strike landed.

“My mouth is not what you should be worried about, pirate.” She thought of the knife hidden in her sleeve. If she used it now, when Bash was on his guard, she’d end up weaponless and back where she started.

Bash grabbed her wrist before her palm struck his face. His fingers curled around the delicate bone, heat blossoming in her chest at the contact.

His gaze turned dark. “Believe me, I’m more worried about what’s in here”—he tapped her forehead before she could swat him away—“than what comes from those beautiful lips of yours.”

She stilled, the compliment searing her cheeks.

His grip around her wrist tightened, and Margrete’s heart thudded as cold metal pressed against her skin. The knife had slipped in the struggle, the blade held in place only by the cuff of her sleeve. As if only now realizing what he’d said, Bash unfurled his fingers and took a generous step back.

Margrete released a relieved sigh, the sting of the blade still fresh in her mind. Thankfully, it wasn’t sharp enough to inflict much damage where it rested, though she hoped it would be enough to drive through an enemy if need be.

“You know,” he said, gaze lingering on her form, “you can actually learn how to fight while you’re here if you’d like to not be so…defenseless.”

Margrete surmised he was going to use a different word but decided that ‘defenseless’ was less insulting. She might have hated him at this moment, but she found her heart pumping faster at his unexpected offer.

“You want me to learn how to…fight?” Gods, how many times had she begged her father for training? Bash’s proposal felt too good to not be a trap.

“Of course.” He snorted, like it was obvious.

“And why exactly would you teach your prisoner how to defend herself?” She narrowed her eyes, feeling wicked. “Not a very clever king, are you?”

Bash leaned against the doorway, those stupidly full lips lifting at one corner. “It’s not you I fear, Margrete Wood. I also don’t fear you escaping. You’re surrounded by punishing seas and waiting guards who have instructions on what to do if you set even one foot outside this palace. But—” He held up a long finger. “I’ve a feeling you have battles of your own back in Prias, and if I don’t get the chance to kill your father, I’d like to know that perhaps I gave his daughter the ability to do it for me.”

All the air left Margrete’s lungs.

“Does that shock you?” Bash pushed off the wall and sauntered closer. “I’d very much like to see the man dead by any means, and, from what I’ve gathered, you wouldn’t mind if you were free of him yourself.”

A world without the captain. How many times had she envisioned that? When the nights were long and bruises painted her skin, she’d think of what would happen if he were to drink too much, if he were to accidentally fall to his death from the top of the keep. When he’d lock her inside the box, she would picture one of his enemies swooping into the keep and slicing his throat. Or that maybe he would simply choke on his dinner.

Yes, Margrete had conceived every grisly scenario in which her father could die, but even after everything he’d put her through, she still felt wrong for thinking such things.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bash cocked his head to the side, auburn hair falling into his eyes. Eyes that were shrewd and calculating, devouring the emotions she was sure danced openly across her face.

When she went to protest such an accusation, the argument died on her tongue. Her silence said more than any words ever could.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to be free of a man like him,” Bash said, his tone softening. “Believe me, I’ve witnessed his cruelty firsthand as a boy, when I was unable to defend myself. Too weak to fight back.” His gaze flickered to his boots. “Since that day, I’ve worked hard never to be defenseless again. Especially if the moment comes when I can redeem myself.”

Pressure weighed upon her chest, increasing with every exhale. “I don’t know if I’m capable of…killing,” she finally said, her voice a whisper of a thing.

Bash once again grabbed her hand, his grip firm. “You may not want to kill, Margrete, but believe me, in this world, you should know how.”

Ignoring the way her hand tingled in his grasp, Margrete met his stare. “You said you saw his cruelty firsthand as a boy.” The fingers wrapped around hers tightened. “When was this?”

Bash’s jaw tensed. “Now is not the time to discuss that,” he bit out, though Margrete knew full well he was only deflecting. Again. She imagined whatever Bash had endured at her father’s hand must’ve scarred him deeply.

She understood his pain all too well.

“I’m sorry for what he did. That he…hurt you.” Hurt seemed like such a small word.

Her eyes fell to where Bash was still gripping her hand, which was turning a shade of purple. Following her gaze, Bash let out a curse and released her, apologizing beneath his breath.

“I’ll send Adrian by tomorrow. He’s highly skilled and a good teacher. The best.” Bash straightened before running a hand through his hair. She noticed how his fingers trembled.

He was sending someone to train her, to teach her how to fight back, a skill she could certainly use when it came time to take Birdie from the keep. The offer made it tempting to stay at least one more night, but Margrete couldn’t be swayed by promises, not when she’d known only empty ones in the past.

“Thank you,” she said, dipping her chin.

The tension in Bash’s jaw eased and his sly smirk reappeared. This was the smile he fashioned when he was out of sorts.

She wondered how he would feel if he knew just how easily she read him.

“It will be me thanking you, if you somehow manage to kill the bastard before I get my hands on him. Even if you don’t, no one should be rendered defenseless. Only small men fear a woman who knows her own mind and wields a sword. Who fights back. Because those women…Well, they have the power to send men to their knees.”

Warmth spread through her chest. He truly meant those words.

“Goodnight, princess.” Bash tilted his head toward the portal just as a guard approached from the end of the hall. Tall and muscular, the guard strode down the corridor, situating himself outside her door. But his presence wouldn’t be of concern, not when she’d already set her mind on a far more precarious exit.

“Goodnight, pirate,” Margrete replied, hoping this was goodbye. Narrowing her eyes, she watched as Bash raised his hand and opened the portal, the mist clearing.

She could feel Bash’s smirk as she walked through the swirling haze, and for some reason, she smiled, too.

But her smile didn’t last for long. Not when she had work to do, and death to cheat.