“Oh really?” His thick dark eyebrows lift. He circles the sponge across one pectoral, and my eyes fix on the dark hair lightly furring his chest. Damp swirls of that hair trace a line from his navel to the cloud of black curls between his legs. “And why don’t you wash up when the rest of the crew does?”
Despite his careless words, there’s a tense rigidity to his shoulders that betrays his caution and alarm. I’ve stumbled onto his secret. Even though I might not know exactly what that secret is, I’ve got leverage over him now. And I won’t lie—it feels really good.
“Why don’tyouwash with the others?” I counter.
His eyes penetrate mine, delving deep, like he’s going to read my very soul. I clench my teeth and stare back just as intently, almost belligerently, until heat ignites in his gaze and I start to feel very warm and tingly. Blood rushes to my cheeks, flooding them with warmth.
When I glance down, he’s half-erect.
“So you want a turn?” he says.
“What?” I breathe.
“A turn to bathe in private.”
“Um—yes.”
“You can bathe when I’m done. I’ll keep watch for you.”
“Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “You must have your reasons for not exposing yourself to the rest of the crew. Scars, birthmarks, tumors—it’s not my business to know. I’ll keep watch for you, if you’ll promise not to talk about my hair, my eye, or the tattoo.”
It’s a good deal. I’d be a fool not to take it. “I won’t mention any of it.”
“I mean it, boy. Not a word.”
“I keep my promises.”
“Do you now?” He continues to wash himself, slowly, rivers of bubbles skimming along the planes of his chest and abdomen. He looks so beautiful, sparkly, clean—and at the same time so firm and roughly male. The tingling at my core intensifies.
I drag my gaze back up to his eyes. The tiniest smirk curves the corner of his mouth. He noticed my interest. Now he’s going to think I’m a boy who likes boys—no shame in that, I suppose, but I really don’t want another complicated layer in the role I have to play.
Maybe he’s a man who likes boys—or men. He’s certainly reacting in a noticeable way to my examination of his physique. The air between us practically crackles with heat and tension. My heart thrums faster.
This is too strange.
Get ahold of yourself, Veronica.
I close the galley door and sit against it. Since it opens inward, my body will block anyone else from entering. Instead of watching Locke, I focus on the oven at the end of the galley.
“Do you work for one of the seven kings?” I ask quietly. “Are you spying on the pirates? Trying to find their hideout?”
“That would be a dangerous mission indeed,” he says. “I confess, I wondered the same of you.”
“Me?” I give a harsh chuckle. “No. I’m not spying for any king. I’m running from the courtly life, and I have no intention of ever returning to it.”
“Then what do you want instead?” His question is punctuated by the liquid slosh of the bathwater, and the squelch of the sponge against his body.
What do I want? Honestly I hadn’t thought past finding my brother.
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
8
“Well, I’m glad you’re not a spy,” Locke says. “Because a mission like that would never succeed. Everyone arriving in Ravensbeck for the first time is imprinted with a magical tattoo that prevents them from revealing its location to anyone, ever.”
I turn my head and stare at him. “Are you serious?”
