The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Margrete

A creaking groan,low and muffled, called to Margrete. She opened her eyes to what seemed like a blurry dream.

“Princess.”

She struggled to focus, searching for that familiar voice. The world swayed, and her body felt heavy as lead.

“Princess.”

The voice sounded once more, and the fuzzy edges of her sight sharpened. A tired face stared down at her, concern carving every distinct feature.

Again, Bash spoke her name, but this time he said, “Gods help us, Margrete, I thought I was imagining it. Your eyes, love.”

Her eyes?

She blinked, unsure what he meant. He looked…frightened. Or maybe confused.

He leaned closer, cautiously, and brushed her hair away as he studied her eyes. The rough feel of his touch and the smell of salt and sun and man enveloped her, his nearness more comforting—more intoxicating—than it had any right to be.

The entire world felt brighter, more intense, and her vision sharpened into something fierce.

Was this a dream? Or some middle-existence between life and death?

Images of spinning shadows and whooshing currents assaulted her, of how she’d struggled to push to the surface. And then there had been a voice—

Danger looms on the horizon. It is closer than you think.

The echo of the sea’s warning—of Malum’s warning—wafted to her ears, and for a second, she was back beneath the waves, fighting tooth and nail to remain alive. The only thing that confused her—well, not the only thing—was that she remembered taking that final precious breath, all of the life sucked from her body in a last push to fight.

Yet now, she inhaled the fresh sea breeze into her lungs and tasted salt on the tip of her tongue. She felt Bash’s warmth, his calloused fingertips skimming back and forth along her arm, sending goosebumps rising across her body. She touched his face, and after a sigh, he pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist.

She was most certainly alive. But how?

“Your eyes…” Bash said again, cocking his head to the side, auburn hair falling into his face. “They really are blue.”

She didn’t have blue eyes. They were hazel and gold.

“They’re not,” she said, her voice sounding as though she’d swallowed sand.

A coughing fit struck, and it took several minutes for it to pass. Bash helped her ease into a more comfortable position against the pillows, and then he handed her a glass of water.

Margrete shook her head at the sight of the full cup. The water sloshed about inside, looking about as appealing as a mouthful of glass. She’d had enough water for one day.

Bash placed the drink on the stool beside him and propped his head on his hands as he took her in. “Remarkable,” he breathed, transfixed by her eyes. He resembled an awestruck child.

Even still, Margrete didn’t believe him just yet, and he must’ve sensed her doubt. He left the room and, a moment later, returned with a mirrored compact.

He offered Margrete the brass compact and she clutched it with trembling fingers. She snapped open the lid and took herself in.

Blue.

Her eyes were blue.

But not any old blue—varying shades of turquoise, aquamarine, and hints of the sky all swirled inside her irises. She tilted her chin, and the dim lighting captured the specks of silver that glinted like tiny stars battling for attention. Her lips parted in shock.

Bash had been right—and she’d never seen anything quite like them before.

“Oh my.” She exhaled sharply and dropped the mirror to her lap. “What happened?” she finally asked, her throat still sore.

“You were knocked over the side.” Bash bit the inside of his cheek and glanced at the shadows clinging to the corners of the cabin. He couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. “You were down there for a long time. I dove in after you when my men were able to free me of that blasted cannon.”

“Are you okay?” She reached up, hands skimming over his chest and shoulders, only to pause when she saw the shredded and bloodied fabric of his sleeve. An image of him, imprisoned and screaming, came to mind, and she recalled the sense of helplessness she’d felt when she couldn’t get to him.

His hand covered hers, and he met her eyes with a glassy stare. “I’m fine. Another crew member took the brunt of the weight, and Azantians heal faster than mortals.” He moved his arm just so, revealing an angry red wound zigzagging across his biceps. Angry, but not open. Healing. “It’s you I’m concerned about,” he added. Bash brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek and swallowed hard, his face stark with memory. “I swear, you were dead.”

Margrete recalled how the numbness greeted her, the overwhelming feeling of tranquil nothingness. Death had swum up to her from the depths. But then…here she was, breathing thick air and gazing at the most captivating man she’d ever seen.

She touched his face. “I should have told you,” she began cautiously, “but I was ashamed to admit it.”

“Admit what?” He scrunched his face.

“I never learned how to swim,” she admitted. “My father always forbade me from going anywhere near the water.”

Bash’s hand flinched on her cheek, but he didn’t remove it. “You can’t swim? Yes, that’s something you should’ve told me.” His eyes were hard. “I would have made certain you were protected. I would’ve never left you alone had I known.” He clenched his teeth. “And the fact that you put yourself in danger, for me—”

“I’m fine.” She cut him off as he began to spiral, and placed her free hand over his. “I heard you scream, and I couldn’t stop myself. Nothing could have stopped me.”

Bash shook his head, his brow pinched. “But you almost weren’t fine, Margrete. You were dead at the bottom of the sea. I’m Azantian. If I fell in, I would’ve survived, but you…You shouldn’t have come for me at all.”

His voice held a sharp tone, but beneath his ire, there was pain.

“If the roles were reversed, would you have come for me?” she asked.

Turmoil twisted his features for only a second before he ground out his reply. “I think you know the answer to that.” Bash’s nostrils flared as he glanced at his lap.

“I’ve never felt like that before. That crushing fear. Even when I pulled you out, you didn’t have a damn heartbeat, princess. Nothing. It took me minutes to revive you, and still, you were so pale, so…”

His eyes lifted to her chest like he was making sure she was still breathing.

The guilt on his face was tangible. Bash tensed when she threaded her fingers through his, but he didn’t pull away. A part of her wanted to tell him what she heard, of the voice she knew belonged to Malum, but she stopped herself. She’d only sound mad, and after what she’d endured, Bash might attribute the encounter to shock.

Instead of what she so desperately wanted to share, she asked, “And then what happened? After you pulled me on deck?”

“Then you finally opened your eyes.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “It was half a second, but I saw the blue, clear as day. It was as though I stared directly into the sea.” He looked at her, jaw tensing. “I know your eyes. I’d know them anywhere. Even in that sliver of a moment. But they changed. It took my breath away.”

A warm flush raced up her throat, and she couldn’t help but squeeze his hand. Bash glanced back to the shadows, and Margrete wanted to do anything to ease his guilt. She could sense him drowning beneath it all.

“I’ve never… I’ve never felt so damn helpless.” His admission was hardly above a whisper, and she wondered if he even meant to say the words out loud.

Bash absentmindedly rubbed small circles on her skin with his thumb, his touch grounding her when the world felt like it was still tilting.

“The ocean saved you. Chose you,” Bash murmured, after some oppressing moments of silence. “You wouldn’t be alive if it hadn’t.”

She frowned. “Chose me?”

“That’s the only thing that can explain what happened.” Bash gave a mirthless laugh. “I should’ve known you had some connection with the sea. Especially when you told me you heard our sirens. Only those blessed by the sea can hear them.” His eyes held hers firmly. “Only Azantians should be able to hear them, I mean.”

The day of her wedding. When she’d asked him, Bash had brushed it off like it meant nothing.

Reading her thoughts, he said, “It appears as though I lie to myself quite a bit where you’re concerned. Everything about you seems impossible.”

Margrete let his words hang in the air. Bash had been wrong about her, but his admission, although framed by a forced smile, lifted a weight from her shoulders. And yet she couldn’t stop ruminating on the first half of what he’d said.

How she was connected to Azantian.

To the sea.

Margrete thought back to all the times the ocean sang to her, its sweet lullaby soothing her to sleep. The way it shushed and calmed after her father locked her inside the iron box. The day she was to marry Count Casbian—the day her life was forever altered—she had heard the sea’s voice calling out to her as if in warning.

“How would you know if I…if I were connected?”

“I—” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Margrete, are you sure about your mother? Where she came from?”

“Yes. Adina told me many times that my mother was a noblewoman my father met in the capital of Aelia. Why do you ask?”

Bash rubbed at his chin. “It seems...odd. Your father fled with an Azantian woman twenty-four years ago. You’re how old?”

No. What he was insinuating couldn’t possibly be true.

“I think I would know if I was half-Azantian, Bash,” she said, though she’d often wondered why her father refused to speak of his late wife. Almost as if the very mention of her brought him pain. “Surely you of all people would’ve been able to tell.”

He sighed. “Honestly, this is entirely new to me. I’ve known very little of the world outside of Azantian, and while you appear human, I could very well be wrong. There are just too many coincidences. Too many connections you share to the sea and my island.”

The truth of his words sent a chill racing down her spine. When she shivered, Bash tucked the blanket up to her chin, his other hand resting above her throbbing heart.

“Whatever you are,” he began, his eyes hardening in promise, “we will figure it out. Together.”

Bash cupped her cheek and she leaned into his palm, closing her eyes as the rough pads of his fingers grazed her heated skin. Her pulse fluttered from his heartfelt pledge.

She wordlessly lifted the blanket, a silent offer. A plea to pretend. To feel rather than think of what her connection to his world meant.

Without a word, Bash took off his boots, his eyes never leaving hers. He slid below the covers and settled on his back, his muscled arm slipping beneath her waist before he tugged her closer.

With her ear pressed above his heart, she listened to its erratic rhythm. When she wrapped her arm around his torso and tangled her leg with his, his breath caught, and her lips curled into a hesitant smile. She affected him just as much as he did her, regardless of where they’d started. From enemies to two people who understood the words between the silence.

The gods truly did have a dark sense of humor.

Just before sleep took her under its heady spell, Margrete felt the press of lips on the top of her curls, a hoarse promise whispered in her ear.

“Before the sun sets tomorrow,” Bash said, “I will reclaim the Heart, and when it is finally in my possession, I will lay the captain at your feet, regardless of how many he brings to defend him. By the time I’m done with him, he will beg you to end his suffering.”

His vow sent her pulse soaring with a twisted kind of hope, though she knew Bash would have no other choice than to put his kingdom first when it came down to it. She couldn’t fault him for that. If he couldn’t end her father tomorrow and retrieve the Heart, she understood what he would need to.

“But if you can’t,” she began, his shirt crumpled in her fist, “then I won’t hesitate to do it myself.”

Margrete would rather be a killer than a coward. No longer could she allow evil to walk the earth and do nothing to stop it. She’d hidden her whole life, trembling in her father’s presence and accepting his perverse punishments as if she deserved them.

But now, enveloped in Bash’s arms, the waves gently rocking the storm-torn Phaedra, Margrete felt fire blossom in her chest.

Fire,and a rage so sweet it breathed life back into a woman who’d forgotten how strong she truly was.

She’d lost enough. It was time to take something for herself.