POV: Beth
When I wake, the first thing I feel is warmth—not the stale kind from damp blankets or the lingering burn of yesterday’s wound. No. This warmth breathes. It moves. It smells like rum and sea and something sharply masculine. I open my eyes, and Alaric is right there beside me. Too close. His face inches away, lashes resting against cheeks smudged with salt and soot. One of his arms is draped beside my pillow, his body curled slightly as if he fell asleep trying not to touch me—and failed.
My breath catches. His hair is messy, dark waves fallen across his forehead. He looks younger like this, softer, almost human. My chest feels tight. I should move. I should push him away. But I’m frozen—staring like a girl who forgot why she hates him.
His eyelids flicker open, and for a moment he looks at me with no armor. Just raw awareness. We’re lying face to face, breaths mixing. My heart punches my ribs.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, voice embarrassingly small.
He blinks slowly. “Watching to see if you’d keep breathing.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “You— you stayed here?”
He grunts, rolls onto his back, but doesn’t move far—still close enough our shoulders brush. “You were half-conscious. Couldn’t leave you alone with half the crew wounded and British bodies still floating behind us.”
“You could have slept anywhere.”
“I didn’t want to.”
That should not affect me. It shouldn’t make something flutter low in my stomach. I shift up onto my elbow, and he mirrors it without thinking—our faces close again. Too close. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a heartbeat. My pulse stutters hard.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
He inhales slowly through his nose, voice low. “Trying very hard not to do something stupid.”
My chest rises. His fingers lift, almost touching my cheek—calloused tips hover a breath away. The air between us feels electric, charged like storm light. If I leaned forward even an inch—
Kaine’s voice erupts from outside the door, loud as cannonfire. “Breakfast, if you’re not dead!”
We jerk apart like burned children. I sit up too fast, wince as bandage pulls. Alaric stands, clearing his throat as if that moment never happened. His expression tightens into that familiar cocky distance.
“Eat. You need strength if you plan to keep up with us.”
I glare, hauling myself up. “You don’t give orders to me.”
He smirks as he opens the door. “Sweetheart, you boarded my ship. That’s possession enough.”
“Possession?” I snap, following him out. “I am not something you own.”
Crew is already gathered, eating bread and fish stew. Conversations dull when we appear together. Whispers slither across table edges like snakes. I hear fragments:
“—saw her calm the sea—” “—witchblood—” “—if she turns—”
Eyes follow me. Fear. Curiosity. Hunger. They’ve bled beside me, but today they see something else—something dangerous. My wound stings, reminding me I’m still breakable.
Kaine shoves bread into my hand. “Eat. Looks like you’ll need the energy.”
I chew though stomach twists. Alaric sits across, eyes briefly on me. Then down. Then up again. He’s pretending indifference so hard it’s almost funny.
After breakfast, he rises and tilts head toward his cabin. “Bandage change. Come.”
I hesitate—every instinct telling me to refuse. But pain throbs through arm, so I follow reluctantly. Inside, he gestures to sit on the crate beside his desk.
“Remove the bandage,” he says.
“You remove it.” I challenge.
His brow arches. “Shy now? After nearly kissing me this morning?”
My face ignites. “We did not— there was no—”
He steps closer, voice soft, mocking gently. “If Kaine hadn’t shouted… we both know what would’ve happened.”
“No,” I whisper, though even I don’t believe it. “I wouldn’t have let it.”
He unlatches the wrap with steady hands. His touch is careful, gentle in a way that makes it worse. We’re silent until fresh cloth rests over my skin. My voice comes quiet, shaky.
“Do you think I’m your enemy now?”
He freezes. Just a moment. No smirk. No shield. Then he ties the knot too tightly, pulling my arm downward.
“I don’t know what you are,” he says finally. “But the sea listens to you. That makes you powerful. And power… destroys.”
“Do you think I’ll destroy you?”
He meets my eyes with something dangerously close to honesty. “I think you could.”
Something in my chest opens and aches. I should leave. Instead we stand there, staring like fools. The moment stretches long, taut like a drawn bowstring—until he turns away abruptly.
“Get some rest,” he mutters. “We sail at noon.”
And just like that—whatever almost happened this morning sinks back into silence.
But I feel it. He does too. And neither of us knows what to do with it.