Page 27 of Vengeance of the Pirate Queen

The man in question widens his eyes in surprise when he sees me draw near. And as I step beside him, his words from last night come to me.

Captain, stop flattering yourself.

I cannot remember the last time in my life I felt embarrassed, yet Kearan managed it with just a few words. I should have listened to Alosa when she said he’d changed. Then I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation.

Even as these thoughts flit through my mind, I keep my face as smooth as sea glass.

“The crew doesn’t need me hovering over them,” I say to the man by way of explanation. “This is the most useful place for me to be until it is my turn to row.”

“You’re the captain,” he says. “You won’t take a turn rowing.”

“Yes, I will.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty. Your job is the hardest one on the ship.”

“Don’t try to sympathize with me, Kearan.”

Vengeancesweeps across the sea, the motion more lurching than when the power of the wind propelled us onward, but progress is better than no progress.

Kearan says, “What’s got you in such a bad mood?”

“I’m not in a bad mood.”

“Was it something I said last night?”

“No.”

He cranes his neck fully in my direction, but I stare straight ahead. “You aren’t embarrassed, are you?”

Despite myself, I blink slowly, still saying nothing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, So—Captain. Like I said, I only want things to be easy between us so we can do this mission.”

“Stop talking, and things will be just fine between us.” Somehow I manage to keep my tone even, but I feel my cheeks heating. Luckily, my complexion is too dark for even Kearan to notice.

He stares down at the helm, and I take the chance to let my eyes shift to him. He’s not wearing his usual coat today. Without the breeze, the weather has grown rather warm. Kearan’s rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows, and I see a series of tattoos along the length of his right arm.

I had no idea he had those.

I trace the designs with my eyes, following the shape of a skull, an ocean wave, some sort of flower, a replica of his cutlass, a helm. Random geometric lines connect everything, mere scraps of his light skin visible between designs.

“Been working on it since I was fourteen,” he says, and I nearly take a step back from the shock of his voice. I’d forgotten those shapes were attached to a living, breathing, horrible human being.

“I don’t care,” I say.

“Sure. That’s why you were staring.”

“I was observing, not staring.”

“Are you embarrassed again?”

I press my lips into a tight line, unable to think of a response that would help the situation.

“It’s okay to ask questions, you know,” he says. “You don’t have to learn everything about people by spying on them.”

“People can lie when they can speak.”

His brow shoots up. “Damn. What happened to make you so dark?”

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