Page 20 of Crossbones
Mother screams. Men shout.
I shake my head at May. “Stay quiet.”
“James!”
“I mean it, May!” I slam the door and throw all my boyish strength into the bed, somehow shoving it back into place on my own.
I run out into the living room to see a man wearing De’Vero colors fighting with my mother. He has her bent over across our dining table with one hand fisted in her hair and the other beneath her dress. There’s blood running down her forehead, mixing with her tears.
“Get off ‘er!” I shout.
“James, no!”
But I don’t listen. I throw myself at the man, taking him to the ground. But I’m no match for a full-grown De’Vero soldier and he easily beats me off him. The two others pummel me with the butts of their guns and darkness is quick to pull me under, the sound of my mother’s screams and the jeering of men follow me into unconsciousness.
I come out of the memory and throw back the rum I’ve been worrying, clutching the glass so hard I can feel my bones grind together. That nightmare had only been the start of the horror De’Vero inflicted on me. I fought tooth and nail out of that hellhole until the day I was able to escape, and I vowed to never again be under the thumb of any man, King or otherwise. Never again would I answer to anyone—but De’Vero and every other man who’d wronged me would sure as hell answer to me.
The need to hit something sweeps over me. I slam the empty glass down and reach for the rum again. Having a De’Vero prisoner on the ship is making my thoughts travel more frequently through the past, bringing up ghosts I don’t want to face. I pour another finger of rum, feeling a little drunker than I want to be but the voices in my head aren’t being quiet and to make matters worse, I can’t get the other day with Fox out of my mind.
He licked the goddamn blade.
And the reaction it provoked in me is making me irrationally angry. Smoldering and dangerous—something has awoken inside me and it continues to linger. I can’t figure out what it is—
Intrigue? Hate? Or, god forbid,lust? What does that even mean?
My lip curls with displeasure, not sure I want to travel that tide at the moment. But there’s no denying I’ve never felt this wild energy before—it’s similar to what I used to feel in the brothels and with Celeste—or at least until recently, but not nearly as intense. It’s the kind of energy that makes my breath shorten and my cock harden. I’m not opposed to liking men, it’s the thought of being attracted tothismale in particular that’s making me feel nauseous.
I’m just intrigued because I hardly ever come across anyone willing to provoke me anymore.
That’s what I tell myself as I down the rum and shove the bottle away. Regardless, I haven’t been back down there in three days andinstead have proceeded to put a dent in the rum stores.
But I know I can’t keep doing this—turning to alcohol to avoid Fox. And avoiding him why—because of the way he looks at me like he’s seeing everything? Even the parts I can’t see? That’s certainly what it feels like when he gets that cocky smile and tilts his head just so. Usually I’m the one doing the manipulating but ever since he’s arrived on this goddamn ship it feels like he’s been the one in control.
Standing up, I decide it's time to pay him a visit. I’m sufficiently inebriated from the rum and I need a distraction. Both from the memories lingering beneath the surface and the way my mind runs wild about my prisoner when I’m alone. Thoughts that don’t have as much hate for him as they should since I’m pretty convinced he’s a part of the House of my enemy.
I step down into the brig, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. Fox is curled up in a corner of the cell, eyes closed, breath even—asleep or passed out—either way he doesn’t wake as I perch on a barrel and study him. The image of his tongue sliding across the flat of my blade comes unbidden to my mind. I scowl and cross my arms, frowning down at his unmoving form.
He mutters something in his sleep, his body jerking. He presses himself against the wall, shaking his head at an invisible enemy. His words are jumbled and mostly inarticulate but I hear enough to get the gist—someone is hurting him.
I move closer to the cell, where I lean my arms against the iron and press my head against the bars. Fox turns further into the wall, the action causes his shirt to slide off one shoulder and I see the pale evidence of lash marks disappearing down his back.
Odd.
Would this man ever yield answers instead of more questions?
Fox jerks awake, running his shaking hands over his face; he doesn't notice me until he turns his head and startles again, cursing.
“Jesus, Blackwell,” he grumbles.
“Dreaming of me?” I taunt.
“Go away.” His voice is without the usual bravado. “I’m not in the mood.”
I feel his eyes on me as I unlock his cell and step inside. I yank him to his feet and shove him face first into the wall.
“What the fuck?” He protests.
Ripping his shirt further off his shoulder, I catch a glimmer of his hatred as he glances over at me. There is none of his usual cockiness anywhere on his face, and I only have a moment to realize there alsostillisn’t any fear, before my attention is quickly diverted.
