Whatever control the crew kept on themselves snaps to a howl of laughter. Someone—Joran, I think—opines on whether the first officer hadn’t accidently put on a man’s uniform when he was seeking a woman’s dress.
I’m too busy gloating to see Domenic’s blade snap into a mighty arc. Not pretty or technical, but backed with every ounce of power the dozen years at sea have drilled into his muscles.
My breath catches, the bodies and practice blades suddenly moving in slow, viscous motion. Too late. I’m too late to parry a strike that’s bound to snap my ribs. With a last-ditch hope, I lift myself to my toes, making my body light enough to fly with the blow instead of absorbing its force.
The attack catches me on the uprise. I’m thrust back a foot before landing, pain spreading from just beneath my ribs through my body. Storms and hail, had I reacted a hair slower, Domenic would have injured me. Badly. My jaw clenches, blood pumping hard through veins and pain. That wasn’t amusing, or safe, or acceptable.
The crew is silent.
Something snaps inside me. I roll to my feet, hissing but not cowed. And not holding back either. Rushing through Domenic’s open side, I slam my knee up into his groin. My chest heaves.
Domenic barely manages to shift in time to take the blow across his hips, his eyes flashing in blue fury. Gripping my shoulders, he throws me to the deck, his body following, his knee pinning my left arm.
There is nothing around me but the crushing pressure on my forearm, the roar of blood singing in my ears, the crack of the deck slamming into the back of my head. I’m going to get the arrogant bastard off me, and then I will make him pay. I will make him hurt. And, storms take me, I’m going to enjoy him screaming while the world laughs. My body tightens, a red pounding haze blocking pain and thought. I swing my right hand, aiming my sword hilt into Domenic’s temple.
Catching my wrist in motion, Domenic bends it so hard, I release my sword with a howl. With the next breath, Domenic is fully atop me, straddling my body and holding my wrists, his bulk grinding me into the deck. The air rushes from my lungs, and Domenic’s weight cinches viciously down on my ribs, making it impossible to draw breath. I swallow another grunt of pain. His nostrils flare, his muscles already shifting to cock his fist, the knuckles aiming for my cheek.
But the air I have, it isn’t just in my lungs.
Tapping my magic, I punch a cold thin wind into Domenic’s eyes, shove it up his nose and down his gullet.
Domenic recoils, and I arch my hips, trapping his right arm and leg to roll us over. To get on top. To crack my fist into his jaw before he tosses me off like a sack of grain.
Domenic’s hair is wild as we scramble to our feet, his breath ragged and hard. Both our hands clench into fists and—
—and find themselves trapped in the iron grips of Zolan and Catsper.
“Gun room,” says Zolan coolly into the heaving silence. “Both of you. Now.”
Chapter 24
Nile
My chest heaves, the Helix’s deck around me coming slowly into focus. My heart, still pounding away to feed my fighting muscles, now sounds too hard and fast for the absurd quiet calm. Eyes watch me. Zolan. Catsper. Kyra. Joran. The other hands. Not Domenic, though, whose gaze for once lingers at his feet.
Gun room. Right. I move in a daze. Down the poop deck ladder to the quarterdeck, down farther belowdeck. Follow Domenic through the narrow passageways of the swaying ship. My wrist hurts, as does my abdomen. Domenic has a bulging bruise over his left eyebrow from a blow I don’t remember landing.
Except for the bruise, which is a remarkable shade of purplish red, Domenic’s face is ashen, reality likely catching up with him as vividly as it is with me. We started a brawl in full view of the crew. I wonder if Domenic has ever strayed this far from naval discipline before. Of course he hasn’t. Domenic’s version of rebellion is opening the top button of his waistcoat.
Stopping at the gun room door, Domenic pushes it open and steps aside to let me enter first.
“A wee bit late for manners, don’t you think?” I say dryly, walking inside.
“I’m sorry.”
“For opening the door?” I wince over my bruised ribs, realizing only now that Catsper and Zolan had not followed us down.
Domenic makes no retort. His head is down, his shoulders tight, two fingers of his left hand pulsing against his thigh. Considering how badly I wanted to hurt him a few minutes ago, I don’t know why this bothers me.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Domenic drops into a chair, his forearms braced on his thighs. Sweat drips from his hair onto his face, the drops sliding down the angled set of his jaw. For a heartbeat, it seems like he’s decided to ignore me, but then his head gives a single, firm shake. No.
No?
I blink, studying his face, his body. He has to be all right. Of course he’s all right. We both are. A bit bruised but…but Domenic is stripped bare. I can feel it. To me, the mayhem on deck was just an errant confrontation, another day of proving myself to the crew. But for Domenic, for him, it was something else entirely. As if he’s stepped over some invisible line of demarcation and shattered something that can never be repaired.
I’d wanted to inflict pain. But not this much. Not this way.
I pull a chair up beside him, though I doubt we’ve much more time to speak. “It was just a fight, Domenic. Zolan is not turning this whole ship around based on a fistfight in the middle of a bloody war. And he won’t strap officers to a grating the way he would a common seaman.”
“I hurt you.” Quiet words, said toward the deck.
I snort. “You hurt me a great deal more before you ever swung that practice blade. Let us not confuse a few bruises with reality.”
“The reality, Ms. Greysik,” says Zolan, striding into the gun room, a tense Catsper at his heels, “is that two officers of a commissioned man-of-war in His Felielle Royal Majesty’s armada acted like a pair of snot-nosed midshipmen and disgraced the uniform I wear.”
Domenic and I rise to our feet, standing shoulder to shoulder while Zolan picks up a stray pen off the table and taps it against his thigh as he paces.
“Sir, I take full—” Domenic cuts off at a flash of Zolan’s eyes.
Step. Step. Step. Zolan’s feet measure the length of the gun room, his face blazing. He stops finally a pace away from Domenic and me, and places his own hands behind his back. “When I was concerned that a woman’s presence on a ship of war would lead to discipline problems, I wasn’t imagining it being you who would swing the punches, Ms. Greysik. Nor did it ever occur to my imagination, Mr. Dana, that a Felielle officer, a captain of a frigate, no less, would raise his hand against a lady. I am disgusted.” Zolan’s nostrils flare. “What have you to say for yourselves?”
I keep my face raised and chin high. Domenic is as ashen as I’ve ever seen him, so much so that I’m unsure he could speak even if he wanted to. Storms and hail. Less than a quarter hour ago, I longed to slam my fist into Domenic’s face, and now my treacherous hand wants to brush his in reassurance.
“Well?” Zolan demands, starting to pace before us again.
“It felt good. Sir,” I blurt. Which is stupid and idiotic, but at least has the advantage of being true. Domenic’s head jerks toward me. Behind Zolan, Catsper presses his lips together.
Zolan freezes. Stares at me as if recounting the words in his mind. “It. Felt. Good?” he clarifies.
“Aye, sir.”
Throwing his pen into the air, Zolan drops himself into a chair, mumbling, “It felt good,” beneath his breath. “It felt good.”
“And is this your recollection of the event as well, Mr. Dana?” Zolan asks.
“No. Sir.”
“Mr. Catsper,” Zolan snaps, making the marine straighten his back. “You are Spade trained?”
“Aye, sir,” Catsper answers with some caution.
“Excellent. Since you orchestrated this disaster, you shall have a hand in cleaning it up. I want the ov
erabundance of energy Mr. Dana and Ms. Greysik ail from to be channeled into an educational exhibition before the crew. By the time you finish, I expect Ms. Greysik’s good feelings to be such a distant memory that she can’t so much as think of them without falling over from exhaustion.” Zolan’s eyes narrow on the marine, his voice dropping to a chilling rumble. “Should I find your efforts falling one hair short of a Spade’s notion of discipline, Mr. Catsper, not only will I put both your friends to the grating, but I will make you wield the cat. All your uniforms be damned. Am I understood?”
Ice grips my throat, and the usual amused gleam is nowhere to be found in Catsper’s eyes as the marine bows. Catsper flashes Domenic and me a single apologetic look before striding out to lead the way on deck.
Seventy-four. Seventy-five. Seventy-six. My lungs burn as I sprint across the poop to touch the deck by the starboard rail, then the port, then back again. Eighty. Eighty-one. The ten paces of moving deck are longer with each sprint. I can’t feel my feet, and the incessant cramp in my hamstring threatens to topple me utterly. Ninety.
Domenic vomits over the rail.
No one laughs. The hands’ mirth had ended two hours ago, sometime between the second time I slipped in my own blood, which trickled in a thin, viscous thread from my nose, and Domenic heaving up the little water we’ve been allowed.
Ninety-nine. One hundred.
“Enough.” Catsper booms, nothing of my friend lurking behind his cold green eyes. “Bring the boat in.”
My stomach clenches, a chill gripping my spine. A ship’s boat, lowered to tow along on a line attached to the Helix’s hull, looks innocent enough—but hauling it in over rough seas makes every muscle scream. During our last attempt, the waves had ripped the rope from my hands, taking skin with it. The red stains where I gripped the line last beacon mockingly.
Domenic stumbles up behind me, gripping the line. His body shakes, but even the tiny body heat we share standing beside each other is a luxury.
“Haul!” Catsper orders.
We throw our weight against the rope, make no headway against the waves. Not now, when just standing is enough to make me dizzy. My foot slips, and the deck slams into my side before I even realize I’ve fallen.
“How long can you keep them at it?” Zolan asks.
“Are you asking how long until I run out of ideas, or until I kill them?” says Catsper.
“Presuming neither of those will come to pass, how long until they collapse?”
Catsper’s voice is low and hard. “I can keep them on the verge of collapse without actually destroying their ability to move for three days, Mr. Zolan. By the middle of day two, I will require safety monitors. So you tell me, sir, how long do you want them at it?”
Days. I grip Domenic’s arm, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze back. He heard too.
“One more hour,” Zolan says, putting his hands behind his back and returning to the quarterdeck with due calm, letting the marine’s “Aye aye sir” hit him in the back.
Relief floods only long enough for Catsper to twist around, finding me still on my knees.
“Since ‘haul’ and ‘nap’ sound alike to you, we shall all wake up with a swim,” Catsper says, taking off his boots. When I blink, exchanging an equally befuddled look with Domenic, Catsper points to the rolling waves of the ocean below. “The sea is the large wet thing three paces to starboard. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Dive. Now.”
“Sip it slowly.” Kyra frowns, placing a mug of hot tea into Domenic’s shaking hands.
Wrapped in blankets and sitting on the cot beside me, Domenic accepts the mug and promptly sloshes the liquid over his fingers. He stares at the steaming drops now hanging off his skin.
“Would you like some help?” Kyra asks him.
“I would like to lie on the deck and never move again.” Domenic eyes the deck of the great cabin, which Zolan had insisted Kyra and I keep. “Ever. I don’t ever want to move again.”
“The deck is all yours.” My teeth chatter, and I press my burning palms close to my chest. “I claim the cot.” The words hang in the air between us as my mind catches up to my mouth. I’d just meant I was tired, not that he wasn’t welcome to share my sheets. Which he isn’t. But that is not what I meant to say just now. I… “May I have some tea as well?” I ask Kyra.
“Let me see your hands first.”
My palms give a painful throb as I pull the blanket closer about me. The wounds can be tended…later. Much later. When I’m not teetering at the edge of endurance. For now, the thought of looking—much less tending—to the stripped skin makes me dizzy all over again.
Domenic sets his mug down, his forehead creasing. “What happened to your hands?” His long arm breaches the two feet of space between us, gently pulling out my wrist. “Let me see.”
I tense. “I’m fine.”
“I know.” The feel of his hand on my skin is enough to make my heart stutter. Storms but I miss this touch, the strength and comfort of his arms wrapped about me, the scent of sea that always clings to his clothes. I miss it so much that I let Domenic bring my burning hands into the open, willing to bear the pain just to have him clasp my wrist a little longer. After four hours of dizzying work, I’ve earned a few moments of illusion.
The illusion shatters.
Broken red marks. Oozing blood and a clearish fluid. Several flayed flaps of skin. Storms.
Kyra turns her head, then steps away to retrieve a rolled bandage and water.
I glance back at my palms, and the cabin sways.
“It’s all right.” Domenic brushes his finger along the healthy outside edge. I jerk my hand back, but Domenic’s grip on my wrist is unyielding despite a soft voice. He rubs a small circle on the inside of my forearm, covering the sensitive skin beneath my elbow. A distraction from my skinned palms. “A rope burn.” Domenic’s voice caresses my face. “I’ve done as much as a middie, sliding down the ratlines. It’s all right.”
Kyra clears her throat. “I brought some—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Domenic says, holding his hand out for the bandage without ever glancing from me. His eyes, blue and addicting, warm me more deeply than any blanket.
Which is ridiculous and goes to show just how bloody exhausted I am.
Kyra obediently hands over the rolled cloths and steps out of the cabin.
“Can you move closer?” Domenic asks.
My heart rattles. I want to move closer. I shouldn’t move closer. Closer is warmth and strong arms and the scent of salt and brine that wraps around me. Closer is judgment and betrayal. “Closer?”
Domenic holds up the bandage. “I can’t reach your other hand from here.”
Right. I slide over beside him, my face tingling, and lay my hand in his lap just to show that I wasn’t ever thinking he’d meant anything different. The next moments are quiet as Domenic wraps my hands, his own gentle and precise, as if something colossal depends entirely on how neatly the white cotton layers overlap each other. Tying off the wraps with knots only a seaman would think of using on bandages, Domenic hesitates, finding small strands of cloth to tuck a bit more neatly into place, waiting for me to pull away.
“This is a very strange day,” I whisper instead. The blanket has slipped off from Domenic’s shoulders, revealing a bare torso, the dark ink of his tattoo stark against chilled skin. He’d slipped into a pair of dry trousers, but the extra effort to don a shirt had seemed too monumental when we came. I only wear clothes because Kyra helped me into them. I rotate my hands so my fingers rest on Domenic’s wrist, just above his pulse. “What with near drowning, and seeing Catsper in his full tormented Spade glory, you trampling a regulation—I’d sooner believe the Tirik are allied with an evil cannibalistic race.”
“Aye.” Domenic swallows. His dark hair, still wet, glistens in the sun rays coming through the great cabin’s window. A drop of ocean slips over Domenic’s forehead, bouncing playfully onto his eyelashes. He shakes his head the way Bear migh
t to get the water off, and I laugh. Domenic touches a finger to my lips. “I do believe Quinn is standing guard outside the door,” he whispers. “Let us not give him the wrong idea.”
“Let us not give each other the wrong idea either,” I whisper, catching Domenic’s forearm as he stiffens at once, staying him before he can lean away. My eyes leap to his tattoo, to where a small scar cuts through the inked rope wrapping an anchor. My body remembers tracing that rope, the way that small bump scrapes my finger pads, how Domenic shudders when touched there because it’s one of the few places he is ticklish.
My heart is trotting and my skin tingles, the aching, tired muscles adding to a reality-dimming fog. Beneath the naked tips of my fingers, Domenic’s muscles coil to match my own tightening chest. I bite my lip. “Today…today is just an odd day. Today is just today. All right?”
Domenic’s hand tentatively brushes my hair, the calluses on his fingers tracing the outline of my brow, my cheekbone, my jaw, making my skin blaze from the touch. “Today is just today,” he whispers back, leaning his face down toward mine. Domenic’s lips part, his warm breath caressing my face, a shudder rushing through him. “I can’t hold off much longer,” he breathes.
“Then don’t.” I bring my mouth up to meet his, and the chill lingering on Domenic’s lips brushes against my skin. His mouth grazes mine tentatively before pulling back to linger a hair’s width away, letting our breaths mix through parted lips. Domenic’s palm finds the back of my neck, fitting into the groove with familiar perfection.
I shudder, my body suddenly hot despite the cold feel of Domenic’s skin. A soft moan escapes my throat, and I part my lips wider in invitation. In demand. In anything that would make him press hard against me.
Domenic exhales a warm breath over my ear, the tip of his nose nudging my earlobe in a way that shoots a jolt of energy down my core. The bit of rough stubble on Domenic’s chin scratches the front of my throat, so close and yet not nearly close enough.