The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea

by Katherine Quinn

  “Yet another reason for you to train with Adrian,” he said. “I do love a challenge.”

  Margrete clutched the glass as Bash leaned forward, placing both hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. She sank deeper into the plush velvet, taking in the way his broad, rounded shoulders and curved, thick chest flexed with the movement.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Margrete forced out, her voice cracking. “I learn quickly.”

  Bash lowered his gaze to her lips again, absentmindedly wetting his own. “I imagine you do.”

  Margrete’s body warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or liquor. He was inches away, eyes hooded, the firelight reflecting in his irises. She leaned in, drawn by whatever magnetic pull consumed them both in this trapped moment.

  A moment where she’d forgotten why she was there to begin with.

  The bitter smell of liquor wafted to her nostrils, but it mingled with Bash’s signature salt and smoke scent. She wished she hated it.

  Bash edged closer, his breath tickling her mouth, their lips a hair’s breadth from touching. I do love a challenge, he’d said. And this certainly felt like a challenge.

  She was determined not to fold first.

  Tingles raced up and down the curve of her spine, the sensation of floating and falling threatening to undo her sensibilities. She tried to remind herself that Bash was drunk and not himself, that this was the reason he gazed upon her lips as though he wished to kiss them. Yet Margrete couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, not even when her mind whispered that she should.

  But the warmth spreading across her body was more intoxicating than the drink. Her eyes instinctively closed, and her breathing caught in her throat as—

  Someone pounded on the door.

  Margrete jerked away, and Bash uttered a soft curse.

  He pushed back from the arms of her chair, though his eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Who is it?” he called out, annoyance painting his every feature. With one brow raised, his mischievous smile transformed into a sneer.

  “Adrian. We need to go over some things before tomorrow’s council meeting, remember?”

  Bash heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his tousled auburn strands.

  “You better not be getting drunk in there!” Adrian scolded from behind the door. “Although, it does make you more bearable.”

  Margrete snorted, but Bash rolled his eyes, clearly not as amused.

  “Hold on, I’m coming!” Bash muttered a few choice words and turned his attention back to Margrete. “It’s been...interesting, princess.” He offered her his hand.

  Margrete swallowed the lump in her throat, choosing to stand without his assistance. Bash’s grin grew wider.

  She lifted her chin and made her way toward the door where a guard would undoubtedly escort her back to her chambers. But Bash’s warm fingers stopped her, wrapping around her wrist, making her turn back one more time.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” Bash’s eyes were wide, sincere. This was most definitely not the same man who’d cornered her on the cliffs. “Everything will go back to how it was,” he promised. “Your life will be the same as it was before I ever showed up.”

  Her stomach sank.

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” she whispered, unable to meet his penetrating eyes. She was finding it difficult to hate him when he stared at her in such a way.

  Bash stood there for a long moment, an unspoken reply burning between them. She could feel the tension in his body—it wafted off him like a breeze.

  He scrubbed long fingers through his hair and, with a frustrated sigh, stepped to the door. He was met by a startled Adrian, who wasn’t sure who to look at first.

  Bash signaled to the guard. “Please escort Miss Wood back to her chambers. Oh, and station two more guards on her balcony.”

  Margrete clutched her cloak between her breasts, hiding what Bash had so openly seen, and headed toward the door, watching the king closely. She caught the way he gazed at her, how he swallowed hard as though the simple act of sending her to her rooms was difficult.

  Pausing at the threshold, she glanced at Bash, her eyes narrowing at his new decree. Bash merely shot her a crooked smile, but she saw how the facade wavered.

  “Your fault, princess. Sleep tight.”

  Whatever moment they shared had passed. Margrete was almost sorry she hadn’t injured him when she had the chance.

  “Goodnight,” she said, not allowing him to see the red tinge of anger burning her cheeks. Over her shoulder, she added, “And I’d cut off on the drink, your highness. It seems you’ve had enough this evening.”

  She could practically feel his smirk as the two guards escorted her back to her rooms.

  Margrete hoped he had a headache tomorrow morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Margrete

  As promised, Adrian arrived early the following morning. He didn’t wear gossamer trousers or a crisp, starched shirt as he had at dinner. Rather, he wore thick leather from head to toe, resembling a beast more than a man.

  The only visible ink today was the pointed shark’s tooth, but it still didn’t move like Bash’s. Margrete had enough time on her hands to speculate as to why no one else had such enchantments, why their tattoos didn’t dance in such bewitching ways. She eventually decided it was because Bash was their leader and perhaps possessed some sort of magic the others did not.

  “Good morning,” Adrian greeted from just beyond the door.

  Margrete was already dressed and waiting, after having scoured the armoire in search of more clothes. The blouse she’d worn the night before was thoroughly ruined, her pants still damp and dirty, but she found four similar outfits magically laid out for her. She’d seen no servants entering her rooms, though, whenever she spotted one in the hallway, they bowed their heads and refused to meet her eye. Regardless, she was grateful for the clean clothes.

  In Prias, Margrete wasn’t permitted to wear pants. Apparently, it was deemed ‘unseemly’ for a woman to display so much of her body. But now, when she was no longer constricted and confined to certain movements, she had a sudden urge to run about like a child.

  Adrian gave her a quick, assessing glance, bowing his head when she caught his eye. Margrete expected him to bring up last night, when he’d seen her coming out of Bash’s chambers. She knew he wanted to, judging by how he eyed her curiously.

  But no pestering questions followed, and Margrete found that she was incredibly thankful for his restraint.

  Adrian’s narrowed eyes halted on her flowing turquoise sleeves, and then he was rolling them up, his fingers nimble and quick. “Wouldn’t want these to get in your way,” he said, buttoning the sides so they would stay in place.

  Margrete nodded as if she understood, but in truth, she had no idea what would and wouldn’t get in her way. She never had a way before at all. Nonetheless, the earthy smell of leather and the calm way Adrian carried himself put her at ease. It was the kind of ease that shouldn’t have existed in such a predicament, but it took up space anyway.

  Adrian offered his arm, and she hesitantly slipped her own through the crook of his elbow. His skin was soft and warm, and she shuddered at the contact. It wasn’t the same as when Bash touched her—it was more like how a kindred spirit finds solace in another like soul. Adrian was attractive and kind, but he didn’t make her heart flutter and skip…and she didn’t have the urge to punch him in the face. Adrian made her feel centered, at home.

  The irony wasn’t lost to Margrete.

  Once they’d ventured up two flights of winding steps, Adrian brought her through an archway of gnarled wood and interwoven metal strands, the silver twisting and turning into delicate nautical designs. Beyond, a wide terrace wrapped around the palace. It floated above the city, luscious green plants and leaves lining the edges. It was a paradise of earthy tones that contrasted pleasantly with the sea it overlooked.

  The walls f
acing the waves were stacked with various weapons she’d never been privy to see, let alone use. Her father certainly hadn’t educated her on such matters, and while she should’ve been afraid, Margrete’s fingers ached to touch the steel and polished wood. If Azantian’s king wanted to make her even more of a fighter than she already was, so be it. Perhaps she might snag herself a weapon in the process. She doubted she would get as lucky as she had last night with the dinner knife, though. She was sure Bash informed Adrian of her theft. Ultimately, Margrete had to be smarter in order to get herself out of this mess.

  “You can touch them.” Adrian chuckled, motioning to the wall. “They’re tempting, aren’t they?”

  Margrete nodded. Any one of the mounted weapons would be much better than a dulled dinner blade.

  There were quite a few spears, so sharp that it stung to look at the points. Their polished handles had been carved with varying designs of war and sea, eerie wraiths of destruction, meeting with a rush of calming waves during low tide. Hung parallel was a gilded crossbow.

  It lured her forward, the finely crafted weapon begging to be held.

  “That’s a beauty.” Adrian waited behind her, observing her curious assessment. “Many of my men prefer this this to a traditional bow. It has a longer firing range with better accuracy.” Adrian lifted the bow from its holdings and turned it over in his hands. Unlike the others, the only design carved onto the handle was a single white star. “But,” he added as he drew back, taking the beguiling weapon along with him, “first we warm up. Then, we play with the toys.”

  Margrete wasn’t sure what warming up entailed, but she quickly learned. Adrian had her running and jumping in place like a madman, and soon enough, Margrete was drenched in sweat. “Keep going!” he encouraged, after ordering her to complete a round of pushups.

  “You’re making me regret accepting this offer,” she grumbled. Her arms were still sore from the previous night. Adrian forced one more set of ten on her, claiming that he was being generous. After a few more drills—all various forms of physical torture—Adrian said something that startled her.

  “Try to land a punch.” He bounced on his feet, clearly unaware of how his demand struck her. “I’d like to see what I’m starting with.”

  “Excuse me?” Margrete halted, hands lowering to her sides. “Punch you?”

  Did her guard just ask her to assault him?

  Adrian continued bouncing around, his breathing even where Margrete’s was ragged. “Yes,” he said. “If you wanted to learn how to fight, then throwing a decent punch is rather important. Next time we’ll focus on defensive maneuvers.”

  This made sense, but Margrete was having a difficult time complying. Though, had she been asked to punch Bash, she might not have hesitated.

  “You’re not going to hurt me,” Adrian promised, urging her on. “Close your hand into a tight fist, like this.” He modeled it for her, and Margrete complied. “No.” He jumped closer, removing her thumb from inside her fist. “If you keep your thumb there, then it will break when you hit your target. When you land your blow, you want to make sure you strike with these knuckles.” He tapped on her index and middle finger. “Slightly twist your wrist down.” Adrian adjusted her hand where he wanted it. “Better. Also—” He pushed her hips back and twisted her body in a way that reminded her of an archer’s stance.

  Hopping back in place, he instructed her to strike him in his chest.

  “Think of someone you dislike,” he offered. “Dig deep and find your knotted aggression, the side of you I’m sure you keep well hidden.” He was attempting to be playful, but Margrete did have a part of herself she kept hidden. It was tangled and murky, and it twisted her gut whenever it rose too far from its prison.

  Although, if she were honest, she’d allowed it to drift from its cage as of late. She told herself it was a defense mechanism, but that was also a lie.

  The beast within was enjoying its newfound freedom.

  “Come on!” Adrian urged, but Margrete wasn’t angry enough yet. Or perhaps she wasn’t determined enough.

  “Think of the person you hate the most. Someone who’s wronged you. Channel that rage and use it to your advantage.” Adrian continued shouting words of violent encouragement, but Margrete didn’t need any more. She already had a cruel, familiar face in mind.

  She pictured him—those blue eyes of steel, his depraved grin, the way his jaw ticked whenever she said something that displeased him. Which she did quite often.

  Margrete saw her father before her, not Adrian, bouncing around, taunting. In her mind, he was reaching out, ready to fling her inside the box. Shut the iron door and trap her in a realm of inescapable nightmares. Monsters that wrapped around her body and clawed at her insides.

  He’s going to put you in the box.

  The words were on repeat now, flowing through her spirit like a flame that refused to be smothered. He’s going to put you in the box.

  Margrete narrowed her eyes and curled her lips, exposing her teeth. She wasn’t going back in that box. Not now, not ever.

  Her father jumped back and forth mockingly.

  Margrete could hear him calling her worthless.

  A disappointment.

  A waste.

  All of the punishing names she’d been called over a lifetime came roaring into her ears, and through the rumble of malicious memories, the box shone like a flare—a symbol of the life she’d always wished to leave.

  I’m not going back.

  When Margrete’s fist collided with Adrian’s chest, a surge of gratifying aggression poured from her soul, her bones, and into her curled fist. That force—comprised of resentment and deep-seated rage—sprang forth like a thundering wave.

  Adrian jolted upon impact, his easy smile now wiped from his face.

  Stumbling back, he stilled, eyes wide. “You—” He coughed, the air knocked from his lungs. “You’re stronger than you look.”

  While he endeavored to return to his previous nonchalant demeanor, he wasn’t convincing. Margrete noted every concerned glance and twitch of his jaw, the way he rubbed his sternum.

  “Maybe we should play with that crossbow now,” she offered, lowering her fists. She suddenly didn’t want to punch anything anymore, even if it bore the face of a monster. Having Adrian look at her like that left a sour taste in her mouth, and, in truth, her hand hurt.

  He nodded, too quickly, and strolled to where the crossbow was proudly displayed.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, anxious to diffuse the tension that had grown.

  Adrian rested the bow’s cradle on his shoulder. “Of course.”

  “Are you not truly…human?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek in thought, but she was grateful when his expression softened. “We are, in a way. But no, we are not entirely human. Think of it like this,” he said. “Azantians are born of the sea. Our people were crafted from sea foam and the lost souls the ocean keeps. We may look and act as you do, but our veins flow with blood and saltwater.”

  “Are you immortal?” She hadn’t really considered this but fighting her way off the island could be even more difficult than expected because of it. If she actually plunged a knife into an Azantian’s heart, would they even die?

  “We age at a slower rate and heal quite quickly,” Adrian replied. “But no, we are not immortal. We will eventually die.”

  Margrete nodded, eyes downcast. “I see,” she said, when in fact, she felt blinder than ever.

  “I imagine it might be difficult to wrap your mind around, but you’ll get there.” Adrian tapped her shoulder and handed over the crossbow.

  Shaking off the thoughts of mortal gods and the sea, Margrete clutched the weapon as he instructed. He adjusted it here and there and modeled how to place the bolts with his own bow.

  Slipping her foot through the stirrup, Margrete reached down, placed her hands on either side of the stock, and pulled the bowstring with both hands. As she brought it to the cocking mech
anism, an audible click sounded.

  “Now the bolt.” Adrian handed her one, and she placed it in the groove so that the end touched the string. “There you go.” He adjusted her into a proper stance. “All set to pull the trigger.”

  She peered up at him. “You do realize you’ve given me a fully loaded weapon?”

  Was she truly that unthreatening? All she had to do was aim and pull the trigger, and he’d be dead.

  “If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve grabbed the spear when we first arrived and at least attempted to drive it through me. Even if you did somehow manage to strike me, Azantian bodies don’t retain the same damage as those of humans. I’d likely be left with a scratch.”

  She glanced down to the arrow, thoughtful.

  “And if I aimed for your head?” she asked, curious now that he’d given her more detail about Azantian mortality.

  “Then I’d say your aim is exceptional, and I’d have a lovely funeral. But seeing as this is the first time you’ve ever held a bow, I’m going to gamble and say I’m safe. For now,” he added with a wink.

  “Azantians are truly the oddest people I’ve ever met,” she murmured, focusing on the bow and the comforting weight of it in her hands. Her body trembled with power—the buzzing flowing through her arms and down to the tips of her fingers. It felt good to hold the bow, as if she were a force to be reckoned with. With her index finger on the trigger, Margrete inhaled and aimed for a yellow bullseye. She wanted nothing more than to pierce the painted wood.

  “I wouldn’t be handing her a weapon if I were you!”

  Margrete’s finger jerked on the trigger, releasing the bolt as she twisted toward the new voice. The bolt zipped past Bay’s ear just as he emerged onto the terrace, the sharpened tip striking the sea glass with a jolting clang before dropping harmlessly to the stones.

  “Oh,” Margrete breathed, slack-jawed and apologetic. “I am so sorry.”

  Bay waved a hand as if that sort of thing happened all the time. “No worries, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say you have it out for me. First, you get me in trouble with Bash, and now you’re shooting arrows at my head. Seems like I have to watch myself around you.” He waggled his brows before striding over to Adrian, throwing his arms about him in an endearing hug. “I missed you,” he purred, leaning up to peck Adrian’s lips.