Page 65 of Captive of the Pirate King
I snatch the sheet from the bed and hold it to my chest as Locke stumbles into the room, bottle in hand. He’s still shirtless, but his chest gleams as if he spilled liquor down it while drinking. He kicks the door shut behind him. “You locked me out, Nick.”
“I was bathing,” I say haughtily, tucking the sheet under my arms. “And you’ve been drinking. More than you should, I’d say. What’s wrong with you? You never drank this much at the Wierling Isles.”
“Thinking about the past, Veronica.” He pronounces my name with bitter emphasis. “Thanks to you. When the past comes to play in my head, I drink.” He sets his mouth to the neck of the bottle and chugs more rum.
“I think you’ve had enough.” Knotting the sheet in place, I approach him cautiously, wary of the kind of drunk he might be—but he lets me take the bottle. There’s a wet, desperate shine to his pale eyes tonight, a pain he’s trying to drown.
“It’s all still here,” he says plaintively, pointing to his temple. “Can’t wash it out, can’t beat it out. Can’t rutting forget it. Gods.”
He sways, and I hurry to brace him with my body. “You should lie down before you fall over.”
His hands close over my shoulders, hot and callused. “Veronica.” My name rolls from his lips again, a rich caress this time. “Veronica, you are beautiful.”
I squelch the smile that wants to creep over my lips. “And you’re drunk.”
“You were drunk once,” he says. “You asked me to undress you, and I wouldn’t. But I wanted to.” His hands cup my neck, and I instinctively cringe away, a flicker of pain reminding me of the choking incident earlier.
Even in his inebriated state, Locke looks mortified by my reaction. “You hate me,” he says dolefully.
“No, no,” I reassure him. “Well—yes. But sometimes I like you a little bit.” Thank the gods he came in here instead of staying out on deck and making a fool of himself. He can’t get this drunk and expect to retain his authority as the Pirate King, can he? He’s always so cunning, so controlled—except when he’s plunging into me, stirring us both into a frenzy of pleasure—
I push the tantalizing image away and shove Locke toward the bunk. “To bed with you.”
He falls onto the mattress, stomach-down, head turned aside on the pillow. His long legs hang off the edge, and I crouch, tugging at the boots. Every time I look at these boots I remember the broken chest cavity of theWending Willow’scaptain, and a surge of bile rises in my throat. I ache to wash it down with something strong.
Once I manage to pull the boots off, I turn back to the table where I set Locke’s bottle, and I take a swig myself. Immediately I choke and spray it out of my mouth. It’s strong, that’s for sure. No wonder he got drunk so fast.
The story he didn’t want to tell me must have triggered this episode of unusual carelessness on his part. And it’s my job to see him through it. The last thing I need is for Neelan or any other disgruntled sailors to realize that Locke isn’t himself right now. They might decide to mutiny, and damn whatever consequences they’d face for killing him. Neelan looked completely sapped of his will to fight after the tattoo session, but on the quarterdeck earlier I got a different vibe from him—a simmering, vengeful energy. It’s to be expected after Locke deposed and shamed him.
Locke moans against the pillow, and I step nearer, still clad in my sheet. The strand of snow-white hair has drifted over his face, and it shifts and flutters with every breath. Carefully I tuck it behind his ear.
I’m glad he doesn’t wear the bandana and eye-patch anymore. I like his hair, and I like to see his whole face. I like the subtle indentations and bunched muscles along the planes of his broad back. I like the dip at the base of his spine, right at the low-slung band of his pants, and I like the swell of his butt. I like his long, powerful legs.
“Nick,” he whimpers. “Nick, I can’t stop remembering.”
I kneel by the bed, uncertain at first, unsure how to help. On impulse I touch his face, following the slant of his strong cheekbone, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, stroking the dark scruff along it. His eyes are closed, and he seems to be relaxing. But when I touch his mouth, he winces, and a shudder runs over his body.
My heart throbs with tender pain. I can’t see the Pirate King in this moment. I only see Locke, my protector and secret-keeper.
“Tell me who hurt you,” I whisper.
His eyes flare open, and his lips twitch back over his clenched teeth. For a few moments he stares at me, silent and glassy-eyed.
“I grew up on Caligo,” he says.
I’ve heard of Caligo. That chain of islands is always mentioned with a distasteful grimace among the Ivrian nobility. Caligo provides large quantities of basic minerals to the seven kingdoms, but it’s a horrible place, a wasteland of black mountains, smoking crevices, and hot, ashen air. Or so I’ve been told. Judging from Locke’s reluctance to discuss his past, it must be even worse than I heard.
“I worked in the mines,” he continues. “Everyone did. When a boy turned seven, it was the mines for him. Few men lived past forty or fifty. Many died much younger.”
I slip my hands around his large one, and I hold on tight while he speaks.
“I spent my days in the dark, far underground, with a foggy lamp and a few tools. I worked from dawn to dusk and never saw the sun. The overseers made the skinny boys do the dangerous work in the tightest tunnels, and since I was both thin and strong, I was put into the most hazardous places. Can’t even count the number of times I was pinned and thought I’d die locked between two slabs of rock. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.”
I grip his hand tighter. I can feel it coming, the terrible confession, the thing he’s been holding back.
“Miners who worked too long in the deepest parts lost themselves—lost their humanity,” Locke says. He’s staring past me, tears leaking unheeded out of his glazed eyes. “A few of them did things to us boys. Twisted things, in dark tunnels where no one could see, and no one could hear.”
I press my forehead to his shoulder and close my eyes, letting my own tears slip down my cheeks.
