The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Twenty

Margrete

Seasonedsailors claimed to know when the sea was at its angriest. They could take one look at the waters and sense when conquering the waves would be futile. Margrete gleaned now would be such a time.

As soon as she made her way from the dock, away from the golden shore of Azantian, the sea grew angry. It had come about so suddenly, this storm, just as it had the first night she’d tried to leave. Whatever forces were working against her, Margrete cursed her luck, but she was too invested and too determined to turn back.

Her movements were uncertain as she adjusted the sail and struggled to hold tight to the till. She’d learned everything she knew about boats from books and watching others sail from atop her tower or, on the few occasions she was allowed, on the docks. On top of the riotous waters, her lack of experience wouldn’t bode well.

Margrete grimaced as another mighty swell splashed over the hull. She wanted to shout into the night. Ask why the sea, the very entity that she knew spoke to her, was keen on hindering her plans for freedom. Wave after wave assaulted the small boat, and it took everything in her not to plummet overboard to certain death.

Yet even as she fought, she was being pushed back by the waves. Back to shore.

Away from freedom.

The waters hissed at her as though in reproach, great waves soaking her clothing and hair, weighing her down further. She could sense the anger, the saturated ire in the air, as the wind whipped at her cheeks.

She gripped the sides of the vessel, hands shaking while she prayed she had the strength to keep from being tossed overboard.

The damned storm had appeared out of thin air. Even the lightning blazing across the sky was strange, the jagged bolts an uncanny shade of white. It would almost be beautiful if she wasn’t hanging on for dear life.

I’m not going to make it, she thought just as a flash of silver blinded her, the night alight with fire and surging electricity. She would either die on these waves or she would have to return and face Bash. Face what she’d done to him.

With sinking hope, Margrete knew her only way out of this mess alive was to turn around. Abandon the last chance she would likely have to forge her own path.

With a foul curse, she roared into the pounding rain, pushing on the till, forcing the vessel around. Margrete couldn’t tell if it was only rain wetting her cheeks or if tears of frustration had joined the fallen drops. At this point, she didn’t care.

She’d failed. Again. Nature had worked against her, twice. She was either extremely unlucky or the gods were simply cruel, toying with her for reasons she didn’t understand.

Her hands trembled as she maneuvered the ship closer to the shore, the wild waves driving her to land. As though the sea knew it had won, the roaring wind and pelting rain eased, the drops falling in a steady rhythm. It was too late to turn back around and try again, not when all of her strength had been drained merely keeping herself afloat.

The swaying waters pushed her to the shore, and when the boat struck sand, Margrete fumbled overboard, the waves rising up to her thighs. Struggling through the water, she pressed on, tumbling into a heap when she made it to the shoreline.

In a moment of weakness, Margrete thought she heard whispers of her name being called. It sounded again, and this time, she lifted her head, not expecting to see the dark silhouette of a man in the near distance.

“Shit,” she gasped, sputtering as a wave crashed around her.

Climbing to her feet, completely drenched from head to toe, Margrete reached into her pocket for the shard of glass she’d salvaged, but a jagged edge dug into her palm instead. A sharp pain lanced up her arm. She’d cut herself.

But the sting it brought about was the furthest thing from her mind as the man came closer. Swaying unsteadily on his feet, a bolt of lightning illuminated his face.

Pure, unadulterated fury painted Bash’s features as he staggered toward her, his lips curled upward in rage. The sedative wasn’t strong enough to knock him out for long, but it had certainly slowed him down, which almost made the anticipation worse.

Margrete realized, for the first time, that she was afraid, and not because Bash was angry, but because of why he was angry. Beneath the simmering ire, she glimpsed a fierce panic that could only be concern.

Concern for her. Not his bargaining chip.

“Are you completely insane, woman?” he roared, towering above her as he reached out for her wrist. He dragged her to him until her chest pressed against his. She shivered in her wet clothes as the rain picked up once more, seeming to match Bash’s wrath. “You could’ve killed yourself!” His grip tightened, and he gave her a slight shake. “You could’ve drowned. Fuck!”

She could feel his hold loosen, the drug still making him weak. But even as he swayed and fought to remain standing, he held firm, demanding an answer.

“I had to try!” she said, unflinching. “You have no idea what it’s like to live your life beneath the thumb of another. To have others decide every aspect of your existence. To not be in control. I can’t do it anymore!” She was outright screaming now, the rain pelting her skin.

His eyes lightened ever so slightly as he swallowed her words. When he spoke, it was a soothing balm to her heated skin. Soft and gentle and so unlike the man who held her.

“You asked for my secrets.” He swiped his free hand through his hair, brushing the wet strands out of his eyes. “You want to share the burden? I will tell you. Come dawn, I’ll show you why I lay awake every night, unable to sleep because I’m worried that I will fail my people. That I won’t measure up to my father. That I will be the king who destroys Azantian.”

Margrete’s arms moved on their own accord, snaking around his torso. Adrenaline flowed through her like a fresh breeze, his poignant confession warming the last of the ice barricading her heart.

“I’m nothing like the great man my father was,” Bash murmured, eyes downcast. “And my people know it well. But that doesn’t mean I will ever stop trying to do the right thing. If not to prove to Azantian that I can be the man it needs, then at least to myself.”

Margrete gripped the back of his shirt and twisted the damp fabric in her fists. Bash lived beneath the shadow of his father, a leader who wasn’t able to teach his son how to rule. That loss became a phantom that haunted his every decision.

“It is because you worry of such things that you are a good king,” she finally said, holding his stare even as she sensed he longed to glance away.

She knew bad men—was raised by one—and bad men didn’t lose sleep worrying about the welfare of others. They didn’t struggle to keep a mask of control in place, if only to soothe the fears of those who looked to them for guidance.

Bash had finally lowered his mask, and what Margrete saw in its place had her heart racing in the most savage of ways.

Lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, and they both flinched. Bash dipped his head closer, glancing at the dark horizon before turning his attention solely to Margrete.

He stared into her eyes, gaze dancing, and suddenly she was too aware of his hard body pressed against hers. Perhaps they were both too aware, because she felt Bash’s body begin to respond.

Her breath stilled, and though her mind said RUN, the rest of her had other ideas.

She arched against him, just slightly, but it was enough.

His breathing increased, and he pressed his forehead against hers. “Don’t ask for something you don’t want, princess.”

Bash’s voice came out on a raspy breath, his mouth so close. She wanted him to kiss her. Wanted to taste the rain on his lips, to feel his teeth drag down her throat. She should want anything but that, and yet…

“You have no idea what I want,” she said.

And then she kissed him.