He glances back at me over his shoulder. When he notices I am not behind him, he stops and turns, leaning an arm against the wall at the entry of the stairway. My eyes are immediately drawn to the curve of the muscles in his arms and shoulders as his shirt pulls tight over them, to the long plane of his body as he leans over me.
“You’re not going back to the brig, princess. Not unless you need to.” He glowers at me, hovering above from where I stand on the step. “I assume you will not need to.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “No promises.”
He grunts and lowers his arm, turning quickly on his heel, continuing to walk down the hallway. I scramble up the steps, trying to ignore the rapid beating of my heart and the flutter in my stomach. I only make it a few steps before I realize where he is leading me. Sig said there was only one room on this side of the hallway.
Captain’s quarters.
Hisquarters.
There is no fucking way I am sleeping in the same room as Weston.
The door to the captain’s quarters is more ornate than the other plain wooden doors in the hallway. Carved filigree fills the corners surrounding intricate panels, complete with a golden knob that seems so out of place on the ship. Weston turns theknob and pushes the door into the room, holding his arm out across it and waiting for me to enter.
My feet stay planted on the floor.
“I’m not sleeping in there. I’ll go back to the brig.”
“You’re not going back to the brig, princess. Your little escape attempt made it clear you need to be supervised, and I’m tired of sleeping in a chair.”
My gaze flickers across his face, and I notice then how tired he looks. Dark circles fill the space under his teal eyes, and his expression is drawn, much angrier than he looked back in the cave when I first laid eyes on him. Sig did say he was being more of an asshole, but I’m not responsible for his decisions and how they affect his mood.
I cross my arms over my chest and hold my ground. “That’s not my fault. I didn’t tell you where to sleep. Aren’t you the captain? You can order anyone else on this ship to guard me. It doesn’t have to be you.”
I take a step backward, which prompts him to release an aggravated sigh. His arm drops away from the door and he steps forward, crossing his arms and matching my stance.
“You have two choices, princess. You can either walk in here on your own, or I can carry you. But either way, you’re sleeping in this room. Or sitting awake all night. I don’t care what you actually do.”
We’re stuck in a standoff, both glaring and unmoving, when he breaks first, taking two long strides toward me. I startle at his sudden movement and throw my arms forward.
“Alright, fine! I can walk,” I yell and stomp toward him.
Dane would be furious if he knew what Weston is doing, but I can’t worry about that right now. This is all part of the game, part of the role I need to play to make him think I am becoming a Castaway.
And I will play it.
I push past him, slamming my shoulder into his abdomen as I go, and hear a low grunt behind me as I push through the opened door. His footsteps follow closely behind, and the door clicks closed once we are both inside the room.
Sconces flare to life around us, casting the room in a dim glow. The space is everything I would expect the captain’s quarters to be. A large four-poster bed sits in the middle of the back wall, the posts secured on the roof to prevent movement when the ship is in motion. An opaque accordion screen stands off to the side, the end of a clawfoot bathtub peeking out from behind it. There’s a trunk at the foot of the bed, and an armoire along the far wall, but unlike the crew’s quarters, everything in here is tidy.
Except for the desk. Rolls of parchment, inkwells, and quills are scattered across the surface, all of them in complete disarray. A carved dark wooden chair with red velvet cushions is tucked into it, with belts and empty scabbards hanging off the back.
That is another difference between his room and the bunks. In here, there’s not a weapon in sight.
Did he plan to bring me here and empty the room of anything I could use against him, to prevent me from slitting his throat in the middle of the night to escape?
The thought of actually killing someone has never crossed my mind, and deep down, I’m not sure if I could actually do it. Edmond discussed it in his hostility training, trying his best to prepare me for it, but the opportunity has never felt real before.
If my life was in danger, or Fin or Dane’s, I could find it in me to do what needs to be done.
But in cold blood?
I clench my hands at the thought, hoping it will never come to that, and I can just stick to my plan and escape unscathed.
Weston breezes past me and starts unhooking his belt with the empty scabbard. He hangs it off the chair, then strides toward the back of the room.
“Did you eat?” he asks, his back to me as he fiddles with something on the bedside table.
