The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Twenty-Six

Margrete

Margrete leaned over the bow,watching as the setting sun gilded the waves thrashing against the sides of the Phaedra.

Slow us down,she urged the waters. Cease your blowing, she asked of the wind.

Time was moving too quickly, when all she wanted was for it to stop altogether.

The thudding of boots sounded at Margrete’s back. She cast a glance over her shoulder to find Bash leisurely wandering over to rest beside her. He propped his elbows on the railing and gazed into the distance.

“Tell me what he does to you.”

She took in the way the sunlight limned his strong profile, his hair like burnished copper. He squinted at the sea and tightened his hands around the ship’s rail. He didn’t have to say more. The pained look twisting his features told her all she needed to know.

When he’d first asked her why she hated her father, she refused to answer. But now...

“He’s—cruel.” She’d been tempted to lie, as lying about the kindness of her father had been ingrained in her since she was a child, but she didn’t feel as if she needed to with Bash.

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, and her throat constricted. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, unable to look at him.

“I’ve already spent too many nights assuming the worst, and I might be a bastard for asking this of you, but I need to know exactly what he does or I’ll lose myself to my own wicked imagination. Margrete, I’m asking you to trust me enough to let me in. Please.”

That one word broke her.

“He locks me in an iron box,” she said, her voice steely, and her resolve strong. “He takes delight in the pain of others. In my pain.” Margrete’s nails bit into her palms. “He threatens to put my little sister in my place should I fight him. She’s the only reason I would allow him such control.”

Margrete would never forget the first time she’d been shut away. She’d just turned eight and wandered into her father’s study uninvited. She came across him at his desk, his eyes trained to some object concealed in his hands. She recalled how those eyes had gleamed, and the sinister way they shined should have been enough of a warning.

But then he’d lifted that maniacal gaze, and that spark flared, a twisted look crossing his features as his lips curled upward. That was the day he began his ‘punishments.’ Her first offence, coming into his study without permission.

“How many times?” Bash’s voice freed her from the unsettling memory. Gone was the stoicism—his ire had turned to a new mark, and the fierce look that sharpened his eyes spoke of a protectiveness she’d not known before.

Margrete shivered, even in the warm breeze. “He’s put me in there too many times to count.”

They remained in an uneasy silence that ate away at her skin. Her flesh prickled and her bones itched to move. To run.

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that,” Bash remarked icily. “No one should. I may have thought him cruel but never like…that.” He ran an uneasy hand through his hair, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “When we attacked the keep, I assumed I would encounter some spoiled woman, one who had lived in luxury as her father stole and pillaged. That is why you surprised me, even on that first day. I suppose I’ve been denying the truth ever since, if only to ease my own conscience. It’s why I didn’t push you for answers.”

“I knew,” Margrete said, surprising herself. “I knew you were fighting to make me into a villain. But I was also aware that, somewhere along the way, you ceased to gaze upon me as such.”

Bash took in a heavy breath, opening his mouth before promptly shutting it again. He couldn’t seem to find the words, the response that might set them both free.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. He tensed.

“I don’t hold it against you,” she said. “Not anymore.”

His throat bobbed with emotion, but he didn’t seem to find relief from her admission. Instead, his eyes met hers, darkening with lethal promise. “Gods, if you don’t kill him, then know that I will. Have faith in that.”

The vow hung between them. An oath spoken before the waters the king revered.

“I believe you,” she said.

Margrete had known many broken promises in her life, had collected lies like grains of sand, but she believed him. Bash once told her that the eyes held the truths of the soul, and his eyes spoke to her in ways words never could.

Bash shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and Margrete’s hand fell from his shoulder.

“If only you had been some spoiled brat, everything would’ve been easier. Now, I just find myself in awe of you. Truly.” His smile went tight. “It is because I find myself drawn to you that I curse you.”

“I wish I still despised you too, pirate,” she said, returning his grim smile. She wondered what truths he saw in her own eyes. If he might glimpse the soul that wept within.

She gripped his arm as he turned to go. He looked back and covered her hand with his.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I just need time to think.”

“There’s no other way, Bash. If my father cooperates and arrives with the Heart, you must let him have me. You cannot risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

He shifted closer, looming over her in a way that made her remember being lost in his arms the night before.

“I know the risk, princess.” His eyes drifted over her face as though memorizing every line and curve. “I also know that Captain Wood has taken enough from me already.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat as he lifted her hand and kissed her palm, his sharp gaze holding her stare all the while. “I’m anything but foolish,” he said. “Know that. Trust me.”

“I do,” she said without hesitation. The desire to trust him began the night she tumbled into his chambers, when she saw the man beneath the mask. It only grew more potent as the days progressed, and the morning he shared his island’s secrets, he earned the trust she guarded.

All at once, Bash lowered himself to one knee, grasping her hand in his and forming a fist above his heart with the other.

“I’ve sworn fealty to two things in my lifetime,” he began, his chin lifted so he could gaze into her eyes. “To my island, and to the Gods of the Sea.”

Margrete’s heart hammered as she awaited his next words, his hold anchoring her in place.

“Now, I vow to you, Margrete Wood of Prias, that my sword is yours. No man or god will stop me from keeping this promise to you. You shall know the freedom you crave. Even if I have to part the seas to find you. Battle beasts and ruthless men. I will even endure the wrath of the gods themselves.”

Her hands trembled, and his oath nearly sent her to her knees. “I pray it will never come to that, Bash,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of his stare.

A muscle in Bash’s jaw feathered, his eyes fierce. “Oh, Margrete. The gods are cruel and seldom kind. And fate? Fate laughs at us all.”