Page 95 of Cursebreaker

Jack’s face lights up, and Margaret lets out the tiniest sigh of relief. But as the others continue to celebrate, I find myself looking out at the horizon, bracing for the moment I’ll spot an enemy ship approaching. Every time a guard shifts their stance, I panic, ready to grab hold of my one remaining dagger and launch into battle. More than once, I find myself checking my weapons, touching the hilts of both cutlasses, the handle of a Howler strapped to my back, the single dagger sheathed at my hip, reminding myself that Will may come for me, but I will be ready when he does. And even though Titus squeezes my hand under the table, attempting to reassure me, I note the way his muscles tense every time someone’s fork clatters against their plate or a flock of birds breaks from the canopy of the jungle behind us.

But the threat never materializes, and I do my best to force bites of food into my mouth—try to enjoy this brief moment of reprieve before we set out in search of the next Relic.

I watch how Jack whispers something in Margaret’s ear and she giggles, covering her face to hide the blush that splatters across her cheeks, and how Lady Isabelle tends to Annie, urging her to take small bites of bread with a quiet, gentle voice. Annie obliges, but her eyes are vacant as she looks around the table, dreamlike, and my heart breaks for her, because after everything she’s endured, to have had Morana in her head, controlling her body… Still, when Henry sticks his tongue out at her, she laughs, and I think I see a spark of the child I once knew in her gaze—think I see Margaret glance their way, over Jack’s shoulder, to smile at Henry.

Henry smiles back.

Mother speaks quietly to one of the guards, and I recognize her cool, measured tone—the voice of Dawnrender. I strain to hear what she says, but a moment later, she stands, following the guard toward the Pearl, her half-eaten dinner forgotten. Father and Killian both turn to watch her go, but they don’t seem too worried, returning to their own conversations as if nothing happened.

After dinner, Titus walks me to my chambers, but there’s something strange about the way his shoulders hunch, his hand flexing at his side. He was quiet during the meal, but now he seems lost in thought, unnervingly withdrawn in a way I haven’t seen from him since the day after he was freed of his compulsion.

Maybe the Red Island isn’t everything he hoped it would be. Or maybe, now that he’s here, he doesn’t want to leave.

“I can’t believe they’re getting married tomorrow,” I say, hoping he’ll look at me.

He just nods, his jaw ticking. “It makes sense,” he says, sliding a hand into his pocket. “None of us knows what’s going to happen next.”

Who we’ll lose, I think.

“It just feels wrong,” I say, my heart racing. “Celebrating when we’re at war.” And then, quietly, “When Elsie isn’t here.”

His mouth tightens. “She would be excited for them,” he says, his gaze fixed on the doorframe behind me as he fiddles with something in his pocket. A flash of blue velvet peeks out as he turns it over. “Aster,” he whispers, his gaze lifting, finally, to mine. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.” He searches my eyes, and I think I hear his heart pounding as he withdraws the box partway—the box I saw atop his desk in the captain’s quarters. “But I—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, letting the box slip back into his pocket as he pulls his hand free, clenching it in a fist at his side. “I’ve been thinking… about what you said.”

I lift a brow, even as my pulse kicks into a gallop. “I say a lot of things.”

His mouth quirks, but his eyes are wild with fear as he flexes his hand open. His fingers tremble as he reaches out, his calloused fingertips stroking my cheek. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, and when he steps toward me, his every movement slow and restrained, I give ground, allowing him to press me against the wall. He places his other hand beside my head, crouching slightly so that we’re almost eye level, and the scent of sun and salt washes over me as his warm breath ghosts my jaw. He encapsulates me with his body, and we’re close enough to touch—close enough that I have to fight the urge to lean into him.

“You told me I needed to live like I was free of my curse,” he says, his voice strained, his gaze dropping to my lips.

My heart skips a beat. “What are you doing?”

His hand glides from my cheek to the nape of my neck as he threads his fingers through my hair. He searches my gaze, his throat bobbing as he leans in closer still. “Living.”

His lips brush mine, and my spine goes rigid. My hands fly up to his shirt, pressing against the warmth of his chest, and he gasps at the touch. He’s drawing back, a look of pure agony on his face, an apology already forming on his lips, when I grab hold of the fabric, twisting it in my fists as I rise onto my tiptoes.

I kiss him, and the world unravels like silk slipping through my fingers.

This time, he tenses, as if he weren’t sure how to react. But a small, desperate sound escapes him as he gently tugs my hair back, his other hand settling at my waist. All I can feel is his warmth, his touch, his lips on mine, frenzied and terrified and so, so tender I fear I might never feel this way again. We kiss each other like we might never get another chance. And we might not.

I don’t want him to stop—don’t want to let him go. But as quickly as I was swept away in his kiss, my thoughts turn to the tasks at hand. Finding the Relics. Evading Will. Defeating Morana. Rescuing Elsie.

It doesn’t take much. Only a movement—a moment of hesitation. I don’t even realize I’ve pushed him away until his eyes snap open, and he stumbles back a step, his cheeks flushed.

He runs a hand through his hair, sweat-slicked strands falling over his forehead. “Forgive me,” he pants, breathless. “I shouldn’t have—It was wrong of me to—”

Panic churns my stomach. “No, no, it’s not you, it’s—”

“Please, Aster,” he begs, his voice cracking, “you don’t have to explain. I—” He grinds his jaw, pressing his fists to his eyes as he lets out a hoarse chuckle. “I’m such a fool.”

I reach for him at the very moment Margaret comes bounding around the corner, a pillow clutched to her chest. She skids to a halt, her eyes narrowing on Titus’s disheveled hair—his swollen lips.

“Titus,” she says stiffly.

Titus casts his eyes skyward, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, but he forces a smile as he turns to face her fully. “Margaret,” he says, offering a curt nod. “Congratulations.”

She nods slowly, flicking a glance at the door to my chambers. “You mind?”

“Marge—” I start, but Titus waves his hand.