I shove him lightly, grinning. “So, I know something about the sea that the great Pirate Lord doesn’t? Maybe I should be crowned lord, then.”
He lets out the smallest laugh, a low, rough sound I wish I could trap in a bottle just to hear again when the world goes quiet. I hate that I love it so much. “It’d take a hell of a lot more than knowing one little fact to earn that title, treasure,” he says, smirking.
I smile, meeting his gaze. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’ve met before, like some old part of me recognizes him. “Anyway,” I say softly, “I don’t feel fear around sirens. Maybe they’re just misunderstood creatures.”
“I’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of,” he says. “I’m lucky to still be alive. They’re vile things, creatures that crave blood and souls. Men’s and women’s, I assume.”
I know he adds that last part to soften the blow. “Well,” I murmur, a hint of a smile curving my lips, “we can agree to disagree.” My eyelids grow heavy, but I can still feel his gaze on me, steady, unyielding, warm enough to make me forget what we’re talking about.
I turn away, slipping beneath the covers. The satin sheets are cool and comforting against my skin. I wear only my undergarments and the oversized, sun-bleached, long-sleevedshirt I always use during long days at sea. Tonight, it feels like armor of a different kind.
I choose the side of the bed closest to the window, drawn to the lull of the waves and the way the moonlight dances across the surface of the water. Resting my head against the cool satin pillow, I let the ocean soothe me. Kai doesn’t say another word, but I feel him near, still and watchful. As the waves whisper against the hull, I let the ocean pull me under and pray he isn’t the storm that follows.
Chapter eleven
Kai
Two Bullets, Two Hearts
I wake before the sun does. I make my way down to the gunroom and light a lantern, the flame shivering before settling into a low, steady glow. Shadows stretch long across the walls, dancing over rows of polished steel. My fingers work a whetstone over a bladeuntil it sings, a sharp, metallic hum that echoes through the cramped room thick with oil, salt, and old gunpowder.
I strike a match and light my pipe. The flame hisses, smoke curling into the dim. The air tastes of salt and smoke. The cold settles deep in my bones, heavy as ballast. Outside, the ship groans against the tide, and a new season rides the wind, cold enough to raise ghosts from the water.
Morning light slips through the slats, turning the steel of the weapons to molten gold. I’ve been down here long enough to lose track of hour and hunger when the crack of a pistol splits the silence. A breath later, the sound of screams follows, raw and eager, and something in me snaps taut. The whetstone clatters to the floor as I shove off the bench and take the ladder two rungs at a time. And if Mira’s hurt, gods help whoever pulled that trigger.
As I shove open the door, a bullet screams past me, burying itself dead center in the head of a wooden target. I freeze. For a breath, all I can hear is the echo. Then I see her.
Mira stands amid the smoke, pistol steady, sunlight spilling through her dark curls like fire caught in motion. Her emerald eyes are narrow, shining like sea-glass in water. She holds the gun with lazy precision, like it’s part of her. The shot wasn’t luck. It was art. And gods help me, I can’t look away.
For a moment, I just stare. The men cheer her name, voices rising, and I feel something twist low in my chest. Admiration. Bitter, unwelcome, and sharp as salt on a wound. She’s my rival, my ruin waiting to happen. Still, I can’t drag my eyes from her. The way she reloads, calm and unhurried, the sunlight glinting off her pistol. The crew feels her power, too. The air thrums with it.
“You’re lucky I don’t miss,” she says, amusement tipping her voice. “I would've killed you.” The corner of her mouth curves like a crescent moon.
Jay pads up behind her, steady as ever, his grin all teeth and pride. “Aye, fine shot, that one,” he says to me, cocking his head as he takes the pistol from her. He raises it with casual precision and fires. The bullet lands clean through where a heart would be. “But I prefer to hit ’em in the chest,” he adds, smoke drifting between his words. “Hurts longer that way.” He taught me that when I was a boy—aim for the heart, not the head. Maybe that’s why I never learned how to protect mine.
Mira laughs under her breath, and it’s so unguarded, so easy, it knocks something loose in me. Smith stands at the stairs, pipe clamped in his teeth, watching with that knowing stillness of a man who’s seen too much. He gives Mira a nod, brief, but not surprised. He knows what she’s made of. He forged half of it.
Mira stands unshaken. And me? I’m just standing here watching them both, realizing I might be underestimating what kind of fire I’ve let aboard my ship.
I step forward, keeping my voice flat. I draw a pistol from my belt, let the metal catch the light for a heartbeat. “Let’s make this interesting.” I pace to the center, all eyes on me. “Hang those targets around the ship. Mira and I will swing from rope. Whoever lands the most in the heart wins.”
“And what do I get if I win?” Mira steps closer, the challenge in her eyes.
I want to answer cockily, recklessly, but the words come easy. “Next round’s on me when we dock. For both crews.”
Her laugh is low, pleased. Jay claps once, Smith chuckles, pipe smoke curling like a benediction. Mira’s crew erupts. Free rum is a promise no pirate ignores. The deck thrums beneath us, alive with shouts and salt and laughter. For a breath, I feel it too, the pulse of the ship, the heat of the moment, the pull between us. It’s competitive, combustible, and threaded with something I can’t name, something that will burn through more than any wager ever could.
“Okay, I’m in. Set up the targets, boys.” She waves a hand in the air, pistol gleaming. Then she turns toward a hanging rope and reloads, movements smooth, practiced. Her confidence is a weapon all its own.
“You’re not afraid—”
“Afraid of what?” she cuts me off, quick as a blade. “Losing to you? No.” Her grin flashes, teeth white against sunburned lips, and for a moment I forget to breathe. I’ve never seen her smile like that before. It’s reckless. Addictive.
“Well,” she says, cocking her pistol, “pick your rope and get ready to lose your title, Pirate Lord.”
“Oh, treasure,” I drawl, matching her step for step, “I won’t be losing anything. But I do love your confidence.” A hint of pink creeps up her cheeks, and it’s the first thing all morning that makes me lose my composure.
I cinch my hand around a ratline and begin climbing, boots finding the knots as the deck falls away beneath me. Mira follows, moving fluid as tidewater, through the rigging. We pull ourselves up onto the yardarm of the mainmast and crouch there, high above the foredeck, the world narrowing to rope and sea and the slope of canvas beneath our knees.
