Page 75 of Captive of the Pirate King
“Wait,” I say, sitting up. “I’ve thought of a different form of payment. Give me my family ring instead.”
“Why?” he snaps. “You don’t love them. They never treated you well. You haven’t told me much about your brother, but I know you’re not hunting him solely out of affectionate motives. Why crave this memento of people who never valued you?”
“I still love them, even if they don’t deserve it. And I haven’t seen my brother in eight years. Who knows if he’ll recognize me?”
“You’re fairly recognizable, Veronica.”
I touch my face, conscious of my freckles. “I suppose.”
“So why this attachment to the ring?”
“Why areyouso eager to keep it?” I counter.
Locke flashes me a wicked smile. “Because it bothers you.”
“And you live to plague and unsettle me.” I rise from the bed, sucked toward him like flotsam to the center of a whirlpool.
“Plaguing you is my dearest delight. I’ve enjoyed it since the day I swung you across from theWending Willowto theArdent,when I felt those two perfect little breasts of yours pinned down under all that fabric. I’ll never forget the way you reacted when I showed you how to use that rope, when I asked you if you’d ever handled anything that long and thick. Of course now I know the answer to that question isyes.” His grin fades, fury sparkling in his pale eyes. “And I wish I could slice the balls off any man who ever touched you.” He steps toward me, taking my face in his hand. “When I think of them inserting themselves into this beautiful mouth—or here—” He cups between my legs, suddenly, savagely—I can feel the press of his fingers through the cloth pad I’m wearing. “When I picture that, I think I might go mad with rage.”
“You told me once that if you could tattoo a vow on me, you’d make me unable to take pleasure from any man but you,” I whisper. “Did you mean that? Did you want me all to yourself?”
“Yes,” he hisses.
“And now that you know about my blood magic?”
Locke’s profile grazes mine, his mouth a quivering breath from my lips. “I want you.”
“But for how long, and in what role?” I whisper, trembling as our foreheads touch. “I can’t be your whore forever. And I’m not sure I want to be part of this life you lead. It’s brutal and wicked. You shock me, every day, sometimes in good ways and sometimes in bad. I don’t know if I can bear this, the constant guilt and concern over what you’re doing.”
“Let the guilt go,” he murmurs. “That’s what I do. I release every choice once it’s made, and I don’t circle back to re-evaluate my actions.”
“Must be nice.” I swallow hard, thinking of the hidden graves on my family’s property.
“It’s necessary.”
“You keep talking about all the men I’ve been with,” I say slowly. “Do you really view me as a whore? Contaminated somehow, and dirty?”
“You’re certainly dirty.” The ghost of a smirk.
“I’m being serious, Locke. Since I told you about it, you changed toward me. You keep bringing it up, sometimes in jest, but I think there’s more to it.”
He pulls back, a muscle ticking at his temple. “I suppose… you’re not who I thought you were. I thought perhaps you’d had a fling or two, but from what you’ve told me, it was a lot of men.”
“But I didn’t care about them. They had the parts I required—nothing more. Not like—” I bite my lips, but his eyes flash up to mine, brimming with the awareness of what I was about to say.
Not like you.
“It’s not fair for you to disdain me,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I did what I had to do to survive. You don’t know how empty I felt, how hopeless—”
“You think I don’t understand hopelessness?” Locke seethes. “Do you know how many times I thought of ending my life? I did things and suffered things just to survive, too, and my circumstances were much darker and more wretched than your life of parties and promenades in fucking Ivris. So your mother mistreated you—at least you didn’t have to endure—”
He breaks off, grimacing, and whirls away from me.
Pain and regret and anger swell inside me until I’m afraid I might burst. “You had a terrible childhood, I know. You were horribly abused. But I lived with a sadist and a murderer, one who had magical powers. For several years I barely slept because I was so afraid Mordan would sneak out of the house to kill someone. I can’t even count how many times I followed him and stopped him just in time. He was addicted to killing, and he was addicted to the sensation of biting and blood-letting. He liked it when I tasted his blood and took control of his mind for a handful of seconds. He enjoyed pain, his own and that of others.”
I’m shaking, fists tight, my breath spasming through my chest. “I saw my brother suck someone inside out once, with his magic. He pulled all her entrails out through her throat. I was running, trying to get to him in time, but I was too late. Another time I saw him collapse a man’s lungs. I watched him spin people in midair until they vomited. Once he exploded a squirrel’s eyeballs with a focused blast of air.”
My voice is a hoarse undertone, strained because even as I spill my darkest truths, I’m trying to hold them back. “You can’t imagine the stress of living with someone like that, terrified they’ll give themselves away to the world, dreading the day they finally decide to turn on their own family. When he left I wasrelieved, but I felt so wretchedly guilty over the lives he’d taken and the ones he would take in the future—I still could barely eat or sleep. So if I stole a little pleasure for myself, if I used other people with their consent, to help myself feel better—who are you to judge me?”
