Locke’s gaze presses against me like a physical touch, though he’s a few steps away. “It’s a great burden, being the conscience for others.”
Cautiously I look up, and the link between us snaps into place again, a molten thread growing tighter and brighter by the second. He understands me, because he acts as a sort of conscience for his captains. A murderous, malformed conscience, perhaps—but a conscience nonetheless.
“I dislike magic in others, because I know the horrible power of my own,” he says. “You must think me inconsistent, since I’m so suspicious of your control over the will of others when I bear a similar power myself. Believe me, I’m careful with my work, and I only take choices from people after careful thought, when not doing so would put others in danger.”
“Why do you care what I think of you?” I retort. “I’m only the captain’s whore.”
His mouth tightens. “In name only. You’ve made it clear you want nothing more from me. You hate me for lying and pretending, though you do the same thing. You despise who I am and what I do, while I am proud of what I’ve accomplished. I came from less than nothing, Veronica, from a place of helpless, hopeless darkness, and now I am the power of the seas.”
I’m not sure how he expects me to answer, so I stay huddled against the wall.
With a sigh Locke goes to one of Neelan’s cabinets and withdraws an amber bottle and a pair of glasses. He unstoppers the bottle and pours brown liquid into each glass. “Have a drink with me, Nick.”
“You keep calling me Nick, and then Veronica,” I say, edging closer to the table. “Which one am I?”
“Nick is my friend and companion, the one I secretly craved when I couldn’t show it.” Locke picks up his glass, swirling the liquid within. “Veronica—she’s the beautiful girl I’ve had the pleasure of bedding. As changeful and dangerous and meddlesome as the Mother Ocean.” He lifts the glass toward me and drinks deeply.
Cautiously I take the other glass and sip. The liquor is sharp and caustic, and it burns my tender throat on the way down. I cough and grimace, and Locke flashes a smile at my discomfort.
“I can’t stay in here long,” he says. “By this time, I should have already had my way with you, and I’d be back to my duties as acting captain.”
I take another cautious sip. “I suppose youarerather quick to your pleasure. Poor stamina for such a famed king of the sea.” It’s not entirely true, but I haven’t forgiven him for choking me or forcing me to reveal my ability.
Locke downs the rest of the alcohol and slams the glass onto the table. “I have stamina.”
I snort and drink again. The liquor is strong, and I’m already feeling its warm burn along my nerves.
“You and I haven’t had time for extended periods of love-making,” he says, frowning. “We’ve had to be quick. Trust me, I can last much longer.”
It’s supremely funny to me how seriously he’s taking my jab at his manhood. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever have the chance to prove it.” I shrug coquettishly at him.
He stares at me, his eyes burning, his long limbs stiff with tension. His control is a tangible thing, vibrating in the air, so taut I could pluck it and hear it sing. What would it take to make that control snap?
Some sick part of me wants to see how far I can push him before he forgets his promise not to take me by force. He’s a pirate, after all, and a king, and I’m playing the role of his whore—there is absolutely nothing to stop him from doing anything he likes to me. Nothing except his word, his personal law, the line he refuses to cross.
If I could push him over that line, I’d be free to hate him. I wouldn’t feel this sweet, painful tug in my soul whenever he looks at me, whenever he’s nearby. I wouldn’t be so torn over my affinity for the infamous Pirate King.
I tug my lower lip between my teeth and move along the edge of the table, nearer to him. My fingertips slide along the neckline of my corset, over the curves of my breasts. “I liked the simple pirate Locke, the one who protected me and took a whipping for me,” I murmur. “But the Pirate King—Ruen Hemlock Embergast—he’s a bloodthirsty brigand, a sadistic fiend, and despicable thief. I don’t want him. And I won’t bed him, not ever again.”
Locke’s chest is at my eye level, and I note the quick intake of his breath. Then he goes very still, solid as a stone. “How perfectly convenient,” he says evenly. “Because I liked the simple cabin boy Nick, and the runaway girl with the stunning green eyes—but this coquettish minx, with her sly ways and bloody magic—I don’t want her.”
And he strides out of the cabin, leaving me stunned and deflated.
46
Locke and I don’t interact for the rest of the day. At first I’m not sure if I’m allowed to leave the captain’s cabin, or if I should stay in there like a good little kept woman—but at last I bolster my courage and stalk boldly out onto the deck. I walk to the railing and grip it with both hands, relishing the familiar grain of the wood and the rush of salty sea air over my face. My scanty clothes whip around my body, and I can feel the eyes of the crew on me, even as they work. But none of them dare cast more than a passing glance my way. They fear Locke’s wrath too much.
The Pirate King’s power is a wall around me, a protection both comforting and confining. I can’t deny that it’s a relief to be a woman again, openly, without fear of death or assault. But I wish it didn’t have to be ontheirterms. It seems I’m doomed to operate always within the lines that men have drawn for me, and I hate it.
After an hour or so of walking the deck, I descend below and enter the galley, my daily refuge and workplace for so many weeks. The familiar smells and sounds entwine me—grease spitting and sizzling in a cast-iron pan, the aromatic sting of spices, the raw earthen scent of freshly chopped potatoes.
In the corner stands the big washtub—the one we use for the largest pots, the one Locke and I bathed in. That night feels like so long ago.
Beside the tub, Dez hunches miserably over a pile of potatoes, chipping away at their peels. Cook is poking at something in the sizzling pan, droning a sea shanty in his off-key rasp.
When Dez sees me, his eyes flare wide with a comical mix of shock, delight, and fear. I press a finger to my lips and sneak behind Cook’s back, plucking an extra paring knife from the block and seating myself on the floor beside Dez. I begin working on the potatoes with him, slivering long coils of skin off the starchy flesh, tucking each naked potato into the bowl of water that sits between me and Dez.
Though we don’t speak, the quiet familiarity of the shared work seems to relax Dez. His eyes keep sliding to my gartered thigh, bared by the scant length of my lacy skirts. I even catch him sneaking a look at my breasts. But to his credit, he doesn’t glance at them again, and whenever I look at him, he keeps his eyes firmly on my face. When the potatoes are done, I wink at him, he gives me a conspiratorial grin.
