The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Thirty-Two

Margrete

Adrian was waitingfor Margrete when they docked.

He was tense, jaw clenched, his hands grasped behind his back.

“Adrian,” she greeted when she reached him, her legs wobbling as she adjusted to solid land.

“My Gods, Margrete, your eyes.”

She’d nearly forgotten. How the hell would she explain this to him?

“Honestly, I have no idea what happened. I fell overboard during the storm that hit us, and after Bash dove in and saved me, they were…different.”

That was putting it mildly.

Adrian lifted his head, finally noticing the many wary stares directed at Margrete’s back. She’d felt those stares since she emerged from below deck. The crew likely wondered if she was blessed or cursed.

“We can talk about this later.” Adrian dipped his chin and held her newly fashioned eyes. “I imagine you need your rest.”

She wanted to be as far away from people as possible. The scrutiny was unbearable.

Adrian placed an arm around her shoulder, and, thankfully, didn’t ask more questions about the storm or her eyes. As they walked away from the docks, thunderous shouts pierced the air, and without even looking behind her, Margrete knew whose voice rose above all others.

“I had already guessed that the trade didn’t go according to plan when I saw you on deck.” Adrian sighed, drawing them closer to the bridge. “But that”—he jerked his head back to the Phaedra—“just confirmed any doubts I may have had.”

Margrete shook her head. “It all went terribly wrong, Adrian. The count was the one to meet us, not my father, and Bash took him captive.”

Adrian glanced away as they continued their trek across the bridge. They were nearly to the other side. “Yes, the men took him off the Phaedra first. I have yet to speak with Bash and receive a debriefing.”

Margrete pulled him off to the side. “I’d like to see him,” she said. “Please, Adrian. Let me talk to him. Maybe I can get more information before Bash questions him.”

He’d mentioned getting answers in any way necessary.

Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, releasing a disgruntled groan.

“Please, Adrian,” she said again.

He must’ve seen the distress brimming in her eyes, because he relented. “Fine, but no more than a few minutes.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Bash isn’t going to be happy, though.”

“Thank you!” Margrete wrapped her arms around his waist. “I promise I’ll be quick, and Bash doesn’t have to know.”

They reached the other side of the bridge and passed through the palace’s grand archway. Adrian led her to a winding corridor she’d never seen where a silver door waited at the end of the hall. A rugged stone staircase lay just beyond, and they walked in silence until they arrived at the entrance of a rank dungeon.

Two soldiers stood guard before the entry, their backs rigid as they bowed their heads to Adrian. Margrete noticed wisps of heavy leaden clouds whirling inside the doorway, trapped inside the steel frame. It was the same type of mystical barrier that had secured her own chambers.

“You have five minutes.” Adrian ushered Margrete forward and nodded to the two soldiers before lifting his hand to the cloudy doorway.

The portal lightened in color, and one of the men grumbled his disapproval as she passed, clearly finding issue with her presence. Margrete grumbled right back, blustering past the sullen guard and down the rocky steps alone. If he had an issue, he could take it up with Adrian.

“Casbian,” she called out to the nothingness.

A hushed groan filled her ears, followed by the whimper of her name. “Margrete?”

“Here!” She picked up her pace, racing to the sound of his voice. He was being kept in the farthest corner, in a cell of iron and rust. Margrete saw the outline of a man on the floor, rising slowly as if it cost him great energy to do so.

“How are you?” She stepped close to the bars and rested her forehead against the iron. “Have they been decent?”

“They’ve been fine.” Casbian grunted, righting himself and standing tall before he ambled closer to the bars. A single sconce flickered weakly on the wall behind her, and as he stepped into the light, it exposed his handsome face.

“How have they treated you?” He scanned her body for any sign of abuse. When his gaze landed on her face, his brow scrunched in confusion. “Have your eyes always been blue?” he asked. “I could’ve sworn they were hazel.”

She sighed, shaking her head. Clearly, there’d be many questions about her recent change in appearance.

“It’s a long story,” she said, “but yes, they used to be hazel. You didn’t imagine it.” She rushed on before he could inquire further. Her eyes were not the greatest issue they had to face. “But don’t worry. I plan on getting you out soon,” she assured him, lifting her hand to his face. A small cut, dried with blood, decorated his chin. It wasn’t deep and had perhaps been inflicted when they threw him down here. “But first, I have to know. Did my father have anything to do with you meeting Bash? Did he send you?”

Her father had caused this mess—he was the one who deserved to be behind bars.

Casbian vehemently shook his head, his dark hair tumbling into his blue eyes. “I went to your father after the attack at the keep. We waited until a scout arrived with a letter. Apparently, whatever these men wanted was more valuable than your life, and your father refused.” He closed his eyes and let out a disgusted scoff. “After he tossed the letter into the fire, I intercepted the scout and sent along my own message on stationery I’d stolen from Wood’s study. I figured it was money they were after, and I couldn’t sit by when I was the reason they had you in the first place. Because I was too weak to defend you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Even if it wasn’t, I would’ve come.” Casbian gripped the bars, pressing his face against the rusted metal. “My coming for you had nothing to do with your father and everything to do with honor. With doing what was right.”

“I just don’t understand,” she pressed. “It isn’t as if we married. You could’ve easily found another bride.” She motioned to him then, to the striking spectacle that he was. Casbian was the leader of Cartus, and he certainly didn’t have to go through all the trouble of bringing Margrete home.

He bristled. “What kind of man would that have made me? I made a vow, even before that day, and I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re a fool.” She chuckled, and Casbian joined her, his laugh deep and hoarse.

Perhaps she might’ve found happiness with him, but the sight of Count Casbian didn’t send flutters dancing in her stomach or shoot tingles down her arms. She felt nothing when she gazed upon him except appreciation.

“I’ll speak with Bash,” she said, “and I’ll return here first thing in the morning.”

“It seems I didn’t make a mistake coming here,” the count said, snaking a hand through the bars to cup her cheek. His touch felt cold against her skin, wrong.

A sudden pang of searing guilt had her pulling away from his touch. Guilt that didn’t deserve a place in her heart.

“I’ll get you out,” she said again, taking a few steps back. She knew her time was up.

“I know you will,” Casbian said with a sigh. “Until tomorrow.”

Margrete nodded, leaving the prison and the man she’d nearly wed behind.