The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Fourteen

Margrete

As promised,Adrian arrived early the following morning. He didn’t wear gossamer trousers or a crisp, starched shirt as he had at dinner. Rather, he wore thick leather from head to toe, resembling a beast more than a man.

The only visible ink today was the pointed shark’s tooth, but it still didn’t move like Bash’s. Margrete had enough time on her hands to speculate as to why no one else had such enchantments, why their tattoos didn’t dance in such bewitching ways. She eventually decided it was because Bash was their leader and perhaps possessed some sort of magic the others did not.

“Good morning,” Adrian greeted from just beyond the door.

Margrete was already dressed and waiting, after having scoured the armoire in search of more clothes. The blouse she’d worn the night before was thoroughly ruined, her pants still damp and dirty, but she found four similar outfits magically laid out for her. She’d seen no servants entering her rooms, though, whenever she spotted one in the hallway, they bowed their heads and refused to meet her eye. Regardless, she was grateful for the clean clothes.

In Prias, Margrete wasn’t permitted to wear pants. Apparently, it was deemed ‘unseemly’ for a woman to display so much of her body. But now, when she was no longer constricted and confined to certain movements, she had a sudden urge to run about like a child.

Adrian gave her a quick, assessing glance, bowing his head when she caught his eye. Margrete expected him to bring up last night, when he’d seen her coming out of Bash’s chambers. She knew he wanted to, judging by how he eyed her curiously.

But no pestering questions followed, and Margrete found that she was incredibly thankful for his restraint.

Adrian’s narrowed eyes halted on her flowing turquoise sleeves, and then he was rolling them up, his fingers nimble and quick. “Wouldn’t want these to get in your way,” he said, buttoning the sides so they would stay in place.

Margrete nodded as if she understood, but in truth, she had no idea what would and wouldn’t get in her way. She never had a way before at all. Nonetheless, the earthy smell of leather and the calm way Adrian carried himself put her at ease. It was the kind of ease that shouldn’t have existed in such a predicament, but it took up space anyway.

Adrian offered his arm, and she hesitantly slipped her own through the crook of his elbow. His skin was soft and warm, and she shuddered at the contact. It wasn’t the same as when Bash touched her—it was more like how a kindred spirit finds solace in another like soul. Adrian was attractive and kind, but he didn’t make her heart flutter and skip…and she didn’t have the urge to punch him in the face. Adrian made her feel centered, at home.

The irony wasn’t lost to Margrete.

Once they’d ventured up two flights of winding steps, Adrian brought her through an archway of gnarled wood and interwoven metal strands, the silver twisting and turning into delicate nautical designs. Beyond, a wide terrace wrapped around the palace. It floated above the city, luscious green plants and leaves lining the edges. It was a paradise of earthy tones that contrasted pleasantly with the sea it overlooked.

The walls facing the waves were stacked with various weapons she’d never been privy to see, let alone use. Her father certainly hadn’t educated her on such matters, and while she should’ve been afraid, Margrete’s fingers ached to touch the steel and polished wood. If Azantian’s king wanted to make her even more of a fighter than she already was, so be it. Perhaps she might snag herself a weapon in the process. She doubted she would get as lucky as she had last night with the dinner knife, though. She was sure Bash informed Adrian of her theft. Ultimately, Margrete had to be smarter in order to get herself out of this mess.

“You can touch them.” Adrian chuckled, motioning to the wall. “They’re tempting, aren’t they?”

Margrete nodded. Any one of the mounted weapons would be much better than a dulled dinner blade.

There were quite a few spears, so sharp that it stung to look at the points. Their polished handles had been carved with varying designs of war and sea, eerie wraiths of destruction, meeting with a rush of calming waves during low tide. Hung parallel was a gilded crossbow.

It lured her forward, the finely crafted weapon begging to be held.

“That’s a beauty.” Adrian waited behind her, observing her curious assessment. “Many of my men prefer this this to a traditional bow. It has a longer firing range with better accuracy.” Adrian lifted the bow from its holdings and turned it over in his hands. Unlike the others, the only design carved onto the handle was a single white star. “But,” he added as he drew back, taking the beguiling weapon along with him, “first we warm up. Then, we play with the toys.”

Margrete wasn’t sure what warming up entailed, but she quickly learned. Adrian had her running and jumping in place like a madman, and soon enough, Margrete was drenched in sweat. “Keep going!” he encouraged, after ordering her to complete a round of pushups.

“You’re making me regret accepting this offer,” she grumbled. Her arms were still sore from the previous night. Adrian forced one more set of ten on her, claiming that he was being generous. After a few more drills—all various forms of physical torture—Adrian said something that startled her.

“Try to land a punch.” He bounced on his feet, clearly unaware of how his demand struck her. “I’d like to see what I’m starting with.”

“Excuse me?” Margrete halted, hands lowering to her sides. “Punch you?”

Did her guard just ask her to assault him?

Adrian continued bouncing around, his breathing even where Margrete’s was ragged. “Yes,” he said. “If you wanted to learn how to fight, then throwing a decent punch is rather important. Next time we’ll focus on defensive maneuvers.”

This made sense, but Margrete was having a difficult time complying. Though, had she been asked to punch Bash, she might not have hesitated.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Adrian promised, urging her on. “Close your hand into a tight fist, like this.” He modeled it for her, and Margrete complied. “No.” He jumped closer, removing her thumb from inside her fist. “If you keep your thumb there, then it will break when you hit your target. When you land your blow, you want to make sure you strike with these knuckles.” He tapped on her index and middle finger. “Slightly twist your wrist down.” Adrian adjusted her hand where he wanted it. “Better. Also—” He pushed her hips back and twisted her body in a way that reminded her of an archer’s stance.

Hopping back in place, he instructed her to strike him in his chest.

“Think of someone you dislike,” he offered. “Dig deep and find your knotted aggression, the side of you I’m sure you keep well hidden.” He was attempting to be playful, but Margrete did have a part of herself she kept hidden. It was tangled and murky, and it twisted her gut whenever it rose too far from its prison.

Although, if she were honest, she’d allowed it to drift from its cage as of late. She told herself it was a defense mechanism, but that was also a lie.

The beast within was enjoying its newfound freedom.

“Come on!” Adrian urged, but Margrete wasn’t angry enough yet. Or perhaps she wasn’t determined enough.

“Think of the person you hate the most. Someone who’s wronged you. Channel that rage and use it to your advantage.” Adrian continued shouting words of violent encouragement, but Margrete didn’t need any more. She already had a cruel, familiar face in mind.

She pictured him—those blue eyes of steel, his depraved grin, the way his jaw ticked whenever she said something that displeased him. Which she did quite often.

Margrete saw her father before her, not Adrian, bouncing around, taunting. In her mind, he was reaching out, ready to fling her inside the box. Shut the iron door and trap her in a realm of inescapable nightmares. Monsters that wrapped around her body and clawed at her insides.

He’s going to put you in the box.

The words were on repeat now, flowing through her spirit like a flame that refused to be smothered. He’s going to put you in the box.

Margrete narrowed her eyes and curled her lips, exposing her teeth. She wasn’t going back in that box. Not now, not ever.

Her father jumped back and forth mockingly.

Margrete could hear him calling her worthless.

A disappointment.

A waste.

All of the punishing names she’d been called over a lifetime came roaring into her ears, and through the rumble of malicious memories, the box shone like a flare—a symbol of the life she’d always wished to leave.

I’m not going back.

When Margrete’s fist collided with Adrian’s chest, a surge of gratifying aggression poured from her soul, her bones, and into her curled fist. That force—comprised of resentment and deep-seated rage—sprang forth like a thundering wave.

Adrian jolted upon impact, his easy smile now wiped from his face.

Stumbling back, he stilled, eyes wide. “You—” He coughed, the air knocked from his lungs. “You’re stronger than you look.”

While he endeavored to return to his previous nonchalant demeanor, he wasn’t convincing. Margrete noted every concerned glance and twitch of his jaw, the way he rubbed his sternum.

“Maybe we should play with that crossbow now,” she offered, lowering her fists. She suddenly didn’t want to punch anything anymore, even if it bore the face of a monster. Having Adrian look at her like that left a sour taste in her mouth, and, in truth, her hand hurt.

He nodded, too quickly, and strolled to where the crossbow was proudly displayed.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, anxious to diffuse the tension that had grown.

Adrian rested the bow’s cradle on his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Are you not truly…human?”

He bit the inside of his cheek in thought, but she was grateful when his expression softened. “We are, in a way. But no, we are not entirely human. Think of it like this,” he said. “Azantians are born of the sea. Our people were crafted from sea foam and the lost souls the ocean keeps. We may look and act as you do, but our veins flow with blood and saltwater.”

“Are you immortal?” She hadn’t really considered this but fighting her way off the island could be even more difficult than expected because of it. If she actually plunged a knife into an Azantian’s heart, would they even die?

“We age at a slower rate and heal quite quickly,” Adrian replied. “But no, we are not immortal. We will eventually die.”

Margrete nodded, eyes downcast. “I see,” she said, when in fact, she felt blinder than ever.

“I imagine it might be difficult to wrap your mind around, but you’ll get there.” Adrian tapped her shoulder and handed over the crossbow.

Shaking off the thoughts of mortal gods and the sea, Margrete clutched the weapon as he instructed. He adjusted it here and there and modeled how to place the bolts with his own bow.

Slipping her foot through the stirrup, Margrete reached down, placed her hands on either side of the stock, and pulled the bowstring with both hands. As she brought it to the cocking mechanism, an audible click sounded.

“Now the bolt.” Adrian handed her one, and she placed it in the groove so that the end touched the string. “There you go.” He adjusted her into a proper stance. “All set to pull the trigger.”

She peered up at him. “You do realize you’ve given me a fully loaded weapon?”

Was she truly that unthreatening? All she had to do was aim and pull the trigger, and he’d be dead.

“If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve grabbed the spear when we first arrived and at least attempted to drive it through me. Even if you did somehow manage to strike me, Azantian bodies don’t retain the same damage as those of humans. I’d likely be left with a scratch.”

She glanced down to the arrow, thoughtful.

“And if I aimed for your head?” she asked, curious now that he’d given her more detail about Azantian mortality.

“Then I’d say your aim is exceptional, and I’d have a lovely funeral. But seeing as this is the first time you’ve ever held a bow, I’m going to gamble and say I’m safe. For now,” he added with a wink.

“Azantians are truly the oddest people I’ve ever met,” she murmured, focusing on the bow and the comforting weight of it in her hands. Her body trembled with power—the buzzing flowing through her arms and down to the tips of her fingers. It felt good to hold the bow, as if she were a force to be reckoned with. With her index finger on the trigger, Margrete inhaled and aimed for a yellow bullseye. She wanted nothing more than to pierce the painted wood.

“I wouldn’t be handing her a weapon if I were you!”

Margrete’s finger jerked on the trigger, releasing the bolt as she twisted toward the new voice. The bolt zipped past Bay’s ear just as he emerged onto the terrace, the sharpened tip striking the sea glass with a jolting clang before dropping harmlessly to the stones.

“Oh,” Margrete breathed, slack-jawed and apologetic. “I am so sorry.”

Bay waved a hand as if that sort of thing happened all the time. “No worries, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say you have it out for me. First, you get me in trouble with Bash, and now you’re shooting arrows at my head. Seems like I have to watch myself around you.” He waggled his brows before striding over to Adrian, throwing his arms about him in an endearing hug. “I missed you,” he purred, leaning up to peck Adrian’s lips.

“I missed you, too.” Adrian bent over so that he no longer towered over the man he kissed back with tender affection. “I was just training Margrete here.”

“She certainly is slippery. With enough training, she might surpass you.” The sincerity in Bay’s smile both warmed and surprised her, like she hadn’t only recently caused him to be the target of his king’s wrath. “Don’t let him push you too hard,” he warned, wagging his finger Adrian’s way.

Adrian rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he was grinning from ear to ear. “You’re ridiculous, Bay.”

“I know this well,” he replied on the coattails of a sigh, then looked at Margrete again. “Well, I’ll be around for dinner tonight if you’d like better company. But I’m not escorting you anymore.” He gave a mock shudder.

Margrete bit the inside of her lips to keep from smiling. “Probably a smart decision.”

Bay pecked Adrian’s lips one last time and gave a playful wave to Margrete. In a blur of smooth steps, he was gone.

“I like him,” she decided out loud, much to Adrian’s delight. He radiated the sort of happiness Margrete hadn’t believed possible. She doubted she would ever find such joy or companionship in another. For her, it was as unobtainable as freedom appeared to be. “I’m surprised he isn’t…”

“Upset that you duped him?” Adrian laughed. “Oh, he was impressed by you, though he’d never admit it. Bay admires those who don’t back down when cornered, and he’s particularly fascinated by the human female who knows how to get under the king’s skin.”

Margrete bristled. “Hardly,” she retorted. If anything were true, it was the king who got under her skin.

Not that she would admit it.

Adrian’s lips curled into a knowing smile, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “I’ll bring you back for a bath, if you’d like. I’m sure your muscles would welcome it after today.”

She nodded, eager to get out of her sweaty clothes and away from Adrian’s perceptive eyes.

They were nearly to the doors when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Slowing her steps, she scanned the palace windows until she halted on a handsome face framed by auburn strands.

Bash.

A heartbeat later, he was gone, the curtains falling back into place where he’d stood.

The King of Azantian had been watching her train, and Margrete didn’t know how to feel about that. All she knew was that her pulse picked up the moment their eyes locked.

He’d given her the chance to train, telling her no woman—no person—should ever be defenseless. And because of him, Margrete realized she wanted to learn how to defend herself, if only so she’d never feel so helpless again.

For the first time, she didn’t think of Bash as her enemy, and that was a frightening thought.