The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Twenty-One

Margrete

The Kingof Azantian tasted of wine, want, and open seas.

Margrete couldn’t seem to remember a time when her lips hadn’t been on his or her body wrapped in a steel embrace of muscled arms and desire. She pressed into him, rising on the tips of her toes as he groaned, and the sound went straight to her core.

The kiss wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was a vicious tangle of tongues and clashing teeth. Wild and full of life. Margrete couldn’t imagine kissing him any other way.

“Margrete.” He pulled away only long enough to murmur her name. His hand roamed to her breast, and she bowed into his touch, her body burning, her heart racing. She needed to feel him, to feel his skin on hers.

She’d lost all sense of who she was. What she should be doing. There was him and the sensation of freefalling. That was all.

Her fingers threaded through the wet curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, his stubbled jaw deliciously coarse against her cheeks. She could feel his excitement press into her stomach, his hunger driving her mad with need. His hand moved to the nape of her neck and slipped into her hair. He gave it a tug, exposing her to him, his lips a hot brand as he kissed up and down the length of her throat.

Bash worshipped her heated skin, his lips tracing the delicate curve of her neck. He breathed her in as though he were a man starved, disbelieving that she would return his passion with a ravenous appetite of her own.

Her fingers curled in his hair, and she yanked on the strands to guide him back to where his lips belonged. Margrete could feel his smile through his kiss, but Bash obliged her, nipping at her bottom lip as his hands settled on her waist.

Gods. She wanted more, her insatiable greed both terrifying and thrilling.

A bolt of lightning ignited the skies behind her closed eyelids and thunder shattered the air, the force of it shaking the sands they stood upon. Her lids flickered open as Bash pulled away with a groan, his eyes hooded. He looked completely undone, and Margrete secretly smiled at the knowledge that it had been her to do that to him.

But her smile soon dipped at the corners when she realized what she’d just done—and with whom. Her chest constricted as Bash’s own features morphed into one of shock, his eyes widening as his gaze fell to her lips. When he lifted his eyes back to her stare, they were guarded, the spark that had ignited them seconds before now smothered.

She could only surmise what he was thinking. That he’d kissed his enemy’s daughter. The woman he needed for the trade. His bargaining chip.

Margrete was prepared to break the uneasy silence that had fallen, to say anything to rid his face of the shame he appeared to feel, but the words died on her tongue. Bash sniffed the air and his nose wrinkled slightly. Worry replaced the mixture of remorse and lust clouding his gaze, and in a move too quick to be human, he grasped her injured hand.

Margrete had forgotten about the wound. She barely felt her limbs at all.

“You cut yourself.” It wasn’t a question. “We need to clean this,” he forced out, his voice strained.

“Did you just…smell my wound?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Heightened senses,” Bash explained, adding no further clarification to the unusual claim. He was more focused on her palm, examining her bloodied flesh with care.

Margrete’s mind immediately drifted to thoughts of what else he could smell.

Her chest blossomed with heat, but she managed to say, “It’s fine. Really, I’ve had worse.” The last part slipped out, and Bash’s face morphed into one of displeasure.

“No,” he ground out. “It’s not fine. It looks deep.”

“Bash, truly, I’m all right,” she argued, but now that the haze was wearing off, heat radiated from the wound. It did hurt. The passion that had struck her so fiercely was suddenly replaced with a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. She’d just kissed the man who’d kidnapped her. Welcomed him into her arms and yearned for his touch.

Was she that starved for affection? No. She knew it was more than that, but she wasn’t ready to admit what she’d felt ignite the moment she saw him atop the cliffs in Prias. What she told herself was merely a little curiosity and a lot of hatred.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Bash was avoiding her gaze now. “Please,” he added, swallowing visibly before offering her his arm.

Maybe it was because of the pleading in his tone, but she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead them up the beach and beyond the palace doors. He was silent as they passed the guards posted in the main hall, his face contorting back into the apathetic mask she had grown to despise.

She liked what was beneath it too much.

“There’s really no need for all of this,” she protested when they entered her chambers. Bash was already striding into the bathing suite, ignoring her entirely. Margrete grabbed a folded blanket to sit on. Her clothes were soaked through, and there was no sense in getting her bed wet.

She lifted her hand and turned her bloodied palm in the dim light. It had stopped bleeding, but the rain had washed the blood down her arm and left her skin splattered with red.

Bash emerged moments later, carting clean linens and a small bowl. He set them gently on the floor beside her feet and stood to his full height, his hands going to the buttons of his drenched shirt.

“You should get out of your wet clothes,” he suggested without looking up from his work.

“I-I’m fine,” she managed to say. Her lips parted as she watched his nimble fingers move, the nearly transparent material giving way to bronzed skin and a gloriously muscled stomach.

“I hope you don’t mind if I do.” He caught her eye, pausing on the final button. She gave a jerky shake of her head, and he continued.

He crumpled the shirt in his hand and tossed it to the floor out of the way. Margrete drank in the many tattoos that decorated his arms and chest. An image of herself licking the remaining rain droplets that slid down his rippling abdomen flashed across her mind.

“Ready?” he asked.

Margrete lifted her gaze from his chiseled body. It was difficult to think, let alone speak, and against her will more sinful images flooded into her thoughts like a rushing wave.

“Y-yes,” she managed to croak, brushing a strand of damp hair behind her ear. Bash let out a shaky exhale before taking a seat beside her on the bed, his thigh pressing into hers.

When he shifted to get a better look at her injury, she noted how his eyes traveled the length of her body, only pausing when he reached her blouse, which left little to the imagination. The top buttons had come undone, and the thin material clung to her like a second skin.

“Let me see your hand, Margrete,” he rasped, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

With strained movements, he bent down to retrieve the rag, squeezing out the excess water. She held out her wounded palm when he straightened, and with a tenderness she hadn’t thought him capable of, he began to clean the cut. He tended to her wound like she was fashioned from the most fragile glass, his eyes trained to his work.

Margrete was thankful when he broke the silence that had befallen them. If another hushed moment passed, she might’ve shattered entirely.

“You really could’ve hurt yourself.” His face turned serious as he briefly glanced to the balcony, to the storm raging outside. “It came out of nowhere,” he mused. “I’ve never seen anything like that in all my years.”

She hadn’t either. Then again, everything had seemed so much more intense upon the waves.

“You know, when I was a young boy, I made the foolish attempt to sail during a storm as well.” She lifted her eyes from her hand. “I thought I was a skilled sailor simply because I was the son of the king. That, and Azantians were made to hold their breath underwater for long periods of time, so I assumed I would be safe. I always did love storms,” he added with a shake of his head.

Margrete smiled softly. It appeared there would be no discussion about the fact that she’d drugged him—or their kiss. Not for now, at least, and she had to admit that it was probably best to simply act as though neither incident had happened at all. Acknowledging them could only lead to trouble.

Bash dipped the cloth into the bowl, which now had a red tinge. “The sea devoured me.” He chuckled, eyes glazed as he worked. “When my sailboat wrecked, the current took me under, right by the reef. I managed to slice myself open, and I barely made it back to shore in one piece.”

“Your scar.” The one across his brow. Bash lifted his head and tossed the dirtied cloth to the side. He flinched when she raised her hand, thoughtlessly running her thumb over the long-ago healed wound. Realizing she was touching him, again, Margrete dropped her hand to her lap.

Bash swallowed hard. “Azantians may be able to heal, but we still scar. It wasn’t my first, nor will it be my last.” Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to wrapping her hand with fresh linen, tying the cloth in place. “Now you have your first scar.”

Their eyes met and held.

“It’s not my first either,” she said, thinking of all the horrors her father had inflicted on her body. “And I also doubt that it will be my last,” she added, her own voice a throaty whisper. Her hand sat cradled in his warm palm, and when his other hand lifted to her face, Margrete’s lashes fluttered, hating how she anticipated his touch.

Reverently, he grazed her cheeks, tucking damp strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers slid down the side of her neck, her throat, traveling down to her collarbones, seeming to memorize the shape of her. Margrete inhaled a sharp breath, her skin tingling.

She would do well to remind herself of her predicament, but she was rendered utterly mindless as the calloused pads of his fingertips traced the smoothness of her skin. She wanted his hands everywhere.

Needed it.

The contact was stealing all rational thought, all the air from her lungs. She remembered how he felt pressed against her body, how his lips fit perfectly with hers.

Heat stole across her cheeks. He’d wanted her, too.

As if he, too, realized his actions, his thoughts, Bash’s wandering hand jerked from her skin. Clearing his throat, he stood abruptly, the soiled linens and bowl in his grasp.

“It’s late,” he ground out, but she could hear how his voice wavered. “You should get out of those wet clothes.”

Margrete rose to her feet, standing inches away from him with her heart hammering. She was tempted to ask him to stay, her body mourning the loss of his touch, but instead, she said, “Thank you for…” She angled her head toward her wrapped hand.

Bash nodded, his jaw tense. “No problem, princess,” he replied, still not moving.

This close, she had to tilt her head to take him in. She could see the turmoil roiling in his eyes. The flashes of what she knew to be desire.

“Goodnight, pirate.” Margrete boldly inched closer, relishing the way his breath caught and how his pulse thrummed wildly in his throat. It made her feel powerful.

“Goodnight,” he said, and Margrete smiled at the warring emotions twisting his features. They were the same ones she knew to be darkening her gaze.

They shouldn’t have blurred the lines. They both knew that. She was smarter than this, not some silly girl who believed in happy endings.

Bash gave her a nod before turning on his heel, as if he too didn’t have the words, the strength, to say anything that would further wreck them both.

Margrete watched him open the portal and disappear into the hall, leaving only the memory of a stolen moment in the rain.