Page 72 of Captive of the Pirate King
“I bared everything to you,” Locke says. “My deepest shame and pain. Because you asked it of me. Why can’t you do the same?”
“What do you care?” I leap off the bed and walk away from him to the shuttered window. I throw it open and immediately regret it, because the stench grows stronger. I’m too flustered to back out now, so I leave it open and grip the low sill. “We had a pleasant time, and then we realized we’re too different. We can’t—I don’t want—”
“You won’t admit what you want.”
Because I don’t know what you’re offering, I want to scream.Because even if you offered me that title—Pirate Queen—I wouldn’t know what to do with it, or how to act, or who to be, or what it meant.
And this is what I do when I want things I can’t have, like my mother’s love and acceptance, or my brother’s sanity and kindness, or my father’s attention. This is what I do when I’m so full of nothing that I can’t think.
I whirl from the window and tackle Locke, full out, shoving him down onto the bed, brutalizing his mouth with mine, driving my tongue between his teeth, pouring all my savagewantinginto a hundred starved kisses. He snarls and crooks his fingers into my short hair, nails grating against my skull. With my body flush to his chest, I grind my teeth and lips against his. Then I slide lower, raking my fingernails down his chest, leaving long pale scratches against his tanned skin. His belly hardens, concave with want, as I move lower still, as my hands brace his thighs apart.
“Nick,” he pants. “Don’t bite me there.”
I look up, licking my bruised lips. “Trust me,” I hiss through a smile. And then I take him in my mouth, and he shouts, a keen sharp sound that thrills me from top to tail. I’ve never been the kind to have sex while I’m on my monthly bleeding, but this is an acceptable substitute. When I’m manipulating him like this, swirling with my tongue and scraping lightly with my teeth, he can’t be saying incisive, insightful things to me. He can only gasp, taut with impending pleasure, his limbs rigid and the most delicious male groans breaking from his throat.
Faster I work, and then slower again, tending to every bit of him with languid, luxurious relish. He tastes fresh and clean from the bath, salty and warm—I love it. I love the shape of his shaft, the sensitivity of the tip. I love the way he claws at the sheets and tips his head back, and then looks down again to watch me sucking on him. I love—I love him.
No, this act was supposed to drive all those pesky emotions into the background where they belong. I take him deeper, deeper and when he breaks with a fierce cry, I don’t release him until he’s completely spent.
The Pirate King is limp and sweating and beautiful, spread out under my hands. No more talk from him. I run a finger across his lips, satisfied.
“You can put away that smug smile, Nick. We are not done discussing this,” he says, breathless.
I clamp my hand across his mouth. “I’ll expect my first payment tomorrow. Fair recompense for services rendered.”
His eyes flicker with hurt, then harden. He grips my hand and moves it away from his lips. “If that’s all you want, that’s what you’ll get.” Then he turns his back to me, drawing the sheet over his body again.
I should be happy that I succeeded in shutting him up, but after putting out the candles I lie awake, heartsore because I hurt him. Why do I have to perpetuate this agonizing cycle of intimate moments and caustic arguments? Why can’t I justyieldto him? Why can’t he express exactly what he wants from me? Does he merely want my body, my friendship—or something deeper and long-lasting?
My eyes are finally drifting shut, despite the odor of fish and mildew, when a dark shadow blots out most of the open window.
Through slitted lids I watch, half-asleep, half-certain I’m dreaming.
No, I’m not dreaming. The shadow is a person, climbing through the opening into our room. A person with a glittering blade in hand.
My entire body tenses. I’m on my back, and Locke is on his stomach again, his face turned away from me. I need to wake him—
But the figure with the knife has already darted to the bedside, arm upraised. Moonlight flashes on the knife as it descends toward Locke’s spine.
I spring up, catching the intruder’s arm in both my hands and crunching my teeth deep into the flesh of the forearm, until my eyetooth grinds against bone. Hot blood floods my mouth as the murderer cries out in pain.
“Stab yourself in the stomach,” I order, and the figure plunges the knife into their own gut.
Locke is up, swearing, slamming a broad hand around the invader’s throat, bearing them down to the floor. I leap out of bed and light a candle with shaking fingers. My lips are wet, and my tongue is slick with coppery blood.
The man on the floor is Captain Neelan. His eyes are squeezed tight with pain, and his mouth is a wretched grimace.
“Tell us why you did this,” I say. “Why tonight?”
“I thought I could do it quiet-like and blame it on the islanders,” he chokes. “I liked you, Locke, when you were a pirate, but I hate you as the Pirate King.” Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “I won’t serve someone like you—weak, spineless. You chain everyone to your stringent code. Being a pirate is about blasting all the damn codes to hell. We do what we want, take what we crave, and fuck the consequences. You have no idea what it means to be a true pirate. Your rule has ruined the Shorn Seas. You’ve stolen our way of life, you insipid fool—” He coughs up more blood. “And what isshe? Blood mage?”
“Is that what it’s called?” I say desperately. “I don’t know.”
“I thought she was just a hole to wet your piece in,” Neelan rasps. “If you can even get it up like a man—and take her like a whore should be taken—” His hands flutter over his bleeding stomach. “Gods’ bones, she gutted me. You’ve got to find me some help. The men won’t stand for this—they’ll think you murdered me—”
“I guess they won’t think I’m so soft then, eh?” Locke says quietly. His eyes are cold and pitiless. “Too bad you don’t like weak, spineless traits like mercy. Tell you what, Neelan—I’ll grant your wish and give you the Pirate King you want and deserve.”
He picks up the dagger Neelan dropped. Gripping Neelan’s chin, he tilts the man’s head back, exposing his throat. Locke shoves the point of the dagger through Neelan’s skin, puncturing it right under the left corner of his jaw. Slowly he begins to drag the knife through the flesh and cartilage of Neelan’s throat. Blood spurts, jewel-red, flecking Neelan’s shirt, splattering Locke’s bare chest.
