Page 145 of Tempest

“We can choose not to answer.”

“I like those terms,” he said, nodding. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, settling in. “Since it was my idea, I’ll go first.”

“Well—”

“Why did you marry Lord Rose?”

The glass in her hand dropped, cracking neatly in two. The tavern spun again, but not from the taquil or the heat or the smoke. It was Ryman who made her stomach twist, though he was far away, locked up in the belly of an enemy ship.

“I’m not sure what you know of noble society,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully.

A low breath hissed between his teeth. “Enough to hate it.”

I suppose I share the feeling, Cat thought ruefully.

“I was not born into a great house, or much wealth. My family is hardly known in the high circles of Brycam City. But we were of good standing, my sisters and I raised properly.” Her lips pursed. “Raised for our purpose.”

Valerian frowned, two lines forming between his eyebrows. “Purpose?”

Cat took solace in the burn of taquil, savoring another mouthful. She could hardly believe the life she was describing, what once felt normal or acceptable. Expected even. Six months on a stolen island with nothing but a bitter man and a blazing sun had burned all that out of her.

“To marry as well as we could. That is, after all, the great hope of all Meridian women. Their only hope,” she explained. “So when I met Lord Rose at a ball, with his title, with his lineage. A country estate to his name, a townhome in Brycam City. Vaults of money made on the spice trade. Grand promises, grander ambition. I never thought I could aim so high.” How she wished she could go back to that country house, to the first dance, to the moment Ryman’s gloved hand closed over hers. For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes closed over stinging tears. “I thought he was my hope made flesh.”

“It was a lie,” Valerian breathed.

Her eyes snapped open again.

“All of it,” Cat murmured, musing over the pieces of broken glass on the bar. “Everything but the title. His family lost their wealth a generation ago, when the Meridian gave up the Spice Islands and their trade to the Rijkstad. He was deep in debt, the whispers of society already swirling. A society I knew nothing of until I entered it, just to be kicked back out the door.” She turned a green shard of glass over in her hand and imagined plunging it into Ryman’s neck. “He had no chance of finding a wife in his own circles. I thought he was my hope. But I suppose I was his, and he hates me for it.”

She stabbed the glass into the wood of the bar top, carving a deep line. It was not flesh, but close enough. Valerian did not stop her, only watched.

“Why drag an innocent woman down with him?” he said, his expression tight.

Cat shrugged, tracing a finger against the edge of the glass, enough to feel the sharpness but not break skin.

“His father’s will. If Ryman married, he would be given the last of his inherited fortune.” Then it was her blood she imagined spilling over the shard, with Ryman holding the green blade. “It did not last long. He sold the townhome first, then the estate. Paid the debt collectors and took what little was left across the ocean.”

She pressed a little harder, enough to feel the looming sting of cut skin. Until warm fingers met her own, gently prying the glass from her hand. Steadily, Valerian put the shard down, his eyes fixed on the jagged edge. Somehow, his fingers seemed to carve deeper marks than any blade could.

“He fled to the Lyrian Sea,” she finished, flexing away the lingering burn of his touch. “And the island now called Rosby.”

Valerian only stared at the glass, arms still crossed. When he finally opened his mouth, Cat saw pity in him. And she hated it.

“And what brought you to the Lyrian Sea, Captain Kane?” she said forcefully, hoping to cut off some weak apology for wounds already carved.

He blinked in surprise. Valerian Kane did not strike her as a man easily taken off guard, and Cat felt some pride in having done so. He cleared his throat, gathering a response.

“My story is the same as most,” he finally said, lifting the bottle. The taquil flowed again, spicing the air with its sweet-burn scent. This time, Cat took it gratefully and drank deep.

Until Valerian’s hand strayed to the open collar of his shirt, and she nearly choked, sputtering against the bite of liquor.

Amused, the pirate grinned and pulled aside the fabric to show the left side of his chest. Candlelight gleamed on the knotted scar over his heart, or rather the tattoo beneath the wounded flesh. Before, it seemed inscrutable, but up close—

Valerian tapped each mangled letter in time. The black script was ruined, almost scraped away. Almost.

H–M–I–N

“His Majesty’s Imperial Navy,” Cat murmured, incredulous. “You were one of the defectors. You chose the black.”