Shivering, she pushed against the solidness of his chest, only getting far enough away to peer into those emerald eyes once again. Somewhere behind her, candle flames danced, casting a seductive darkness across the rigid planes of his half-naked body and damp face, the wavering shadows unable to resist the temptation to kiss those full lips.
“Bash,” Margrete whispered, hating how raspy she sounded, how breathless. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Trying to escape? Again?” Bash offered, his brow raised as a hint of anger flashed across his irises. The scar that ran through that brow gleamed white when it caught the light. “Or were you just trying to kill yourself?”
Not one of her wisest decisions, granted, but what choice did she have?
Bash’s fingers played on the small of her back, his arms made of steel. His impenetrable hold thoroughly imprisoned her, his frame towering nearly two feet above the top of her head.
It was then that Margrete remembered what her sleeve concealed.
Before his easy smirk could dip, Margrete pulled out the dinner knife and pressed the blade against the hollow of his throat.
She would’ve been proud of herself if his sly smile didn’t flourish, a twisted sort of excitement playing across his face.
“A dinner knife?” His eyes flickered down, noting the thin silver hilt of the blade. “I would’ve thought I’d meet my end by a grander weapon. Certainly not one I used to cut my fish with earlier.”
Margrete thrust it deeper. “Maybe we can see how well it cuts an Azantian man?”
Bash let out a deep rumble of laughter. “I don’t mean this as an insult, but I don’t think you will. You told me yourself that you couldn’t kill a man.”
Margrete’s hand trembled. He was right. She couldn’t kill, even with her own freedom on the line. And kill him? For some reason, the thought of Bash, lifeless and bloodied, sent tremors down her spine.
Bash tipped his head back, exposing his throat. “Go on, then. Do it.”
The hand holding the knife shook, but her voice stayed strong. “I should kill you, right here and now. You kidnapped me, took me away from my little sister.” She pushed on the handle, and a thin line of blood formed at the edge of the blade. “Birdie was innocent in all of this, and now you’ve left her alone. With him.” Wetness lined her lower lid, but she swallowed back her tears.
Bash’s playful grin dropped.
“The way I see it,” she continued, “you’re in my way, and I fight for those I love. So please, just let me go so I don’t do something I regret.”
“You fight for everyone…except yourself.” Bash spoke on a breath, sympathy creasing his eyes.
Margrete resented that look, one she took as pity.
“I do what I have to.” She dug the blade deeper now, and more blood rose. “I’d gladly take the brunt of his attention so she doesn’t have to.”
“That’s almost admirable.” Bash swallowed hard, the blade shifting with the movement. “But there are other ways to fight back. Ways that don’t involve you rolling over and accepting your fate.”
“That’s why there’s currently a knife to your throat. Unless you haven’t noticed that little detail yet.”
“And here I thought we were getting along.” Bash heaved a sigh. “You wound me. Quite literally apparently,” he added, one brow arching.
He was unfazed, finding Margrete’s threat amusing. That just pissed her off more.
“Don’t push me—”
One moment she was pressing the blade to his neck, and the next, she was spinning. A rush of air replaced the knife she’d been clutching as Bash drew her against him, her back flush with his chest.
Kicking the dinner knife with the toe of his boot, he sent the useless weapon flying across the room, well out of reach. She could feel the smirk playing across his lips as he lowered his head, his hot breath tickling the shell of her ear. “You were saying?”
Well, that wasn’t how she hoped the moment would play out.
“That was just my first attempt.” She struggled in his hold. “What do they always say? Try until you succeed?”
Bash tsked, his nose nuzzling her hair. “I’ll have to make sure we count the cutlery after each meal.”
“So I’m supposed to sit back, enjoy the wine and conversation, and wait for you to either kill me or return me to my father?”
The room whirled once more. Her hands shot up on instinct, her fingers digging into the rigid muscles of his chest.
The sting of her nails biting into his flesh elicited a hiss, though the sound wasn’t one borne of pain.
“You’re more courageous than I believed.” A wicked smirk teased his lips, and his hooded eyes lowered to where her nails undoubtedly marked him.
“I told you that you didn’t know me.” Margrete stiffened in his embrace, her body enveloped in his addicting warmth.
She shouldn’t find his touch comforting. It should disgust her. Minutes ago, she’d held a knife to his throat, and yet...
“It seems you wish to remedy that.” Bash’s gaze blazed down her body.
She glanced down, too. The front of her cloak lay open, revealing her white blouse and much more. The fabric had been ripped low, likely when he’d yanked her from falling to her death. The tops of her breasts spilled out of her undergarment, her skin still glistening with raindrops. Margrete didn’t move or speak, thoroughly caught in the snare of his gaze. Bash’s throat bobbed, and he lifted his eyes, his breaths coming out sharp and fast.
Margrete’s mind went to Jacob, the only man who’d ever held her in such an intimate way, and the only one who’d ever seen so much of her laid bare. He’d been kind and gentle, reverent whenever she was in his arms.
Bash’s touch was harsh, demanding…and not entirely unpleasant.
“You can release me.” She shifted in his embrace, but Bash made no move to yield. Instead, dimples popped up on either cheek, his sharp features devilish.
“And have you try and kill yourself again? I think not.” One hand moved to her cheek, the other securely positioned at the small of her back. His palm was calloused, the pads of his fingers rough against her skin.
Margrete swallowed her gasp as he ran his knuckles down her jaw, the tender contact sending warmth into her belly. Wherever he touched, the skin prickled, coming to life.
“See.” His smile turned smug, infuriatingly so. “You don’t want me to release you at all.”
That was enough for Margrete to snap out of her trance and regain what was left of her dignity. With a shove that was neither graceful nor gentle, Margrete sent Bash stumbling back a full step. Knowing how strong he was, she surmised he allowed it.
“You’re blushing, princess.” That haughty grin flourished, the candlelight playing across his handsome face as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Wet trousers that hung low on his hips, revealing a deep V of muscle that led to the last place she should be looking.
“I am not blushing.” Clutching her blouse closed, she forced out the lie, the heat in her cheeks searing. She told herself her blush was due to mortification at how quickly her plan had failed. If she were being truthful, the way the soft light flashed across his bare chest—and the rest of him—was enough to cause such a shameful reaction.
Bash was all broad shoulders and lean muscle, chiseled by years of what was undoubtedly hard work. Dark ink covered the expanse of his chest, and sea creatures from the deep moved about his skin.
But it was the treacherous nymera depicted across his heart that had Margrete’s eyes widening. The beast’s sharpened claws and scaled fins sent a jolt of unease through her veins. Even still, her eyes wandered lower again, her pulse quickening.
No human should be that handsome.
Although, he had claimed he was far from human. She forced her gaze away.
Bash turned to a low table where a glass of liquor perched beside an open notebook full of illegible scribbles. His long fingers wrapped around the glass, lifting it to
his lips and taking a hearty drink.
“Well, that explains it,” she scoffed, eyeing the nearly empty bottle accompanying the notebook.
“Explains what?” Pausing the glass at his lips, he looked at her in question.
“You’re drunk.” That was why he was being...not friendly, per se, but not as harsh as he’d been before. It also explained why he wasn’t as furious as she’d anticipated having just caught her scaling the palace walls. While she’d expected his temper to flare, for him to raise his voice and send her back to her chambers, Bash had done nothing of the sort. She would say he was even pleased by her presence.
“Can’t a man enjoy a drink after a trying day?” Bash brought the glass to his mouth once more, the amber liquid sloshing against the rim.
She watched the column of his throat work with every swallow. Even that part of him was enticing.
The glass was empty when he lowered it, his hand already reaching for the bottle to pour some more. “Thirsty?” He raised the replenished tumbler in her direction, those impish dimples deepening.
Margrete shivered, her clothing soaked and her hair plastered to her face. She wasn’t sure if she trembled from the cold or something else.
Surprising herself, she reached for the tumbler, much to Bash’s amusement. It was still warm from where he’d grasped it. She tilted her head back and drained half of the contents before she thought too much about it.
The liquid went down easy. Smooth. Heat pooled in her belly, spurning the cold. With the drink in hand, Margrete warily scanned the room. His chambers. A king’s chambers.
It was shockingly bare, devoid of any personal touches. A fine gilded bed took up the center of the room, a plain white desk situated in the corner, and two chairs and a table sat before an empty fireplace. Aside from a dresser, there was no other furniture decorating the room.
“Meet your approval?” Bash waved about the space, angling himself toward the two simple black velvet chairs sitting before the barren hearth.
“It’s a little...sparse,” Margrete admitted, taking another bold sip. The liquor eased the embarrassment of her disastrous escape attempt. She would have to think of another way to leave this island. Maybe Adrian would be her key out of here; he seemed sympathetic enough. Perhaps she could exploit his kindness.
“I don’t like a lot of clutter.” Bash fell into one of the chairs and rested his elbows leisurely on the wooden arms. “Sit,” he commanded a moment later, not glancing back to see if she’d comply.
Her pride begged her to deny him, to instead ask if she could be escorted to her room in shame. But Margrete’s feet moved on their own accord, deciding for her. She was exhausted, and rightfully so. Her arms would be sore tomorrow morning.
Margrete sank into the plush velvet and placed her glass in her lap. She cradled the drink as though it were a lifeline. Her body still shivered, even if it wasn’t necessarily cold outside, and she pulled her damp cloak tighter around her shoulders.
“You’re cold,” Bash observed, lifting from his seat before she could deny the claim. “Can’t have my bargaining chip freeze to death, now can I?”
“Your bargaining chip thanks you,” she murmured when he returned to his seat minutes later, the beginnings of a fire blossoming. She could already feel its divine heat kiss her skin, chasing away the tremors.
“Although, you’re going to be sorely disappointed when you discover I’m not of use,” she said. “As I’ve told you before, my father and I aren’t close. He wouldn’t trade anything he prized for me. Daughter or not.”
A look of worry crossed his face. “I don’t believe that. You’re his blood.”
Flashes of the box and its unholy darkness flickered across her mind.
“Some men hold power and riches in higher esteem than kin,” she said. “I can promise you now, he won’t come for me. You’re wasting your time.”
“Tell me why, then. Help me understand why your father would abandon his daughter?”
She couldn’t get into the complexities of their relationship. Not with Bash, anyway. Her father's hatred for her had been a confusing, awful part of her life since she was small. There was no explaining it, because no parent should despise their child the way her father despised her.
“It wouldn’t change anything,” she said, jaw clenching. Why should she open her heart to this stranger? Tell him of her darkest moments?
“If you refuse to tell me, then you’re right, it doesn’t change anything,” he agreed when the seconds ticked by, and she’d yet to speak. “I still think he will come.” He spoke forcibly, as if attempting to convince himself. “He’s a prideful man, and even if you claim there is no love shared between you, his daughter being taken would make him appear weak to his enemies. His ego wouldn’t stand for that.”
Margrete thoroughly disagreed. He wouldn’t come. He would leave her here to rot.
Instead of arguing a point Bash refused to acknowledge, she asked, “Why haven’t you sent me back to my chambers? I’d have expected some form of retaliation when your prisoner attempts to flee for a second time.”
“Oh, sweet Margrete, my reasons are entirely selfish. I simply didn’t wish to drink alone.” He gestured with his glass then downed the contents. The bottle at his side held enough for one more pour.
“Why? What’s driving you to drink tonight?” Margrete couldn’t help but ask, a swell of curiosity making her brazen.
Bash kept his eyes trained on the hearth. “Many things will drive a man to drink.” He gave a derisive scoff. “There are far fewer things that don’t.”
The liquor, in combination with the fire, was doing wonders for Margrete, her shoulders losing some of their tension.
She took another sip.
“Is it lonely?” She should’ve asked any other question, but the despondent look in his eyes coaxed the words from her lips.
“What? Being king?” Bash shook his head, shifting to meet her cautious stare. “The world is lonely regardless of whether or not one wears a crown.”
A steel band wrapped around Margrete’s chest. Loneliness was an emotion she knew all too well.
“That’s true,” she agreed before finishing off her drink.
His long, muscled arm snaked around his chair. After digging beneath a pile of notebooks and papers, he deftly produced a new bottle. With a flick of his thumb, he dislodged the cork and filled Margrete’s tumbler again. She mumbled a thank you and took a long swig, enjoying how the liquor dulled the edge of her despair and the sting of her desperate thoughts.
“You know,” Bash began, leaning his head back and kicking out his boots before the hearth. “You’re nothing like him. Nothing like I imagined.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “While Wood is a fire set on razing everything in its path, you hold a different kind of flame in your eyes. The kind that’s warm but altogether blinding. I can’t seem to explain it to myself, but I recognized it the very first time I saw you. When you nearly killed yourself—and me, for that matter—on that cliff.”
Margrete’s mouth opened to protest, but Bash cut her off.
“Gods, you must have a thing for dangerously high places.” He shook his head as a genuine smile brightened his features, strands of auburn hair tumbling into his eyes. She hadn’t seen him smile in such a way. He looked at her. “You’re a reckless little thing, aren’t you?”
He didn’t mean it as an insult, and Margrete found her lips lifting, captivated by the drunken words spilling from his mouth. “If I was going to die, then I was planning on taking you with me.”
“Good thing I have amazing reflexes.” He shot her a roguish wink. “Again, I find myself deserving of a ‘thank you’ and receiving none. Your manners might need some work, princess.”
Margrete scoffed. “Why would I thank you? You’re merely protecting your asset. Without me, you have no leverage.”
Dimples popped up on his cheeks at that. “I think I’m growing to like your bite.” His gaze fell to her lips.
“It makes me wonder what else hides beneath that pretty exterior.”
Her cheeks burned at the compliment, but the drink was loosening her tongue. “And you,” she began, her voice taking on a playful lilt. “Is there more to you than a man seeking revenge and hiding behind clever retorts?”
His smile dipped at the edges before he righted it. “I wouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
Margrete’s body buzzed, and not only from the drink. “And if I do? If I do want answers?”
Gods, the words were out of her mouth before her mind could keep up. She hadn’t meant to speak the thought aloud.
She noted the bob of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest. He hadn’t expected that, but Bash recovered quickly, just as he always did.
“You need to stay alive to receive such answers, and your little escape attempt almost resulted in your very unfortunate and painful death. I would’ve expected better from you.”
“I would’ve been successful if not for the rain!” Margrete bristled, not sure if that was entirely true.
“Of course, you would’ve been.” Bash gave a wry twist of his lips and rested his head idly on his open palm. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t plan on killing you.” He gave an indifferent shrug as though the words didn’t carry any weight at all.
“I can’t make that same promise,” Margrete threatened, but her voice was light, airy.
A deep chuckle bubbled up from his chest, the sound like an easy hug. This wasn’t the same person she’d met in Prias, not the same coarse and jeering pirate who’d taken her from her home. It was as if she was staring at an entirely new man.
“That’s fair.” Bash set down his glass. “Maybe it would be fun to see you try,” he added as he rose from his seat.
Bash towered over her as he closed the distance, his movements surprisingly graceful given his inebriated state. His skin rippled across his taut abdomen, and her eyes wandered to where the dark dusting of hair disappeared beneath his trousers.
Suddenly, her mouth grew parched, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. When she dragged her eyes away, she caught Bash fixated on her mouth.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 10
