Page 62 of Tempest

“Don’t act like I would be the only Meridian officer to put your name on a list.”

Fell’s voice rose, filling the cabin, and his self-satisfied air fell away. Cat saw frustration instead, as color spotted his cheeks.

“There was talk of another round of arrests; you were among them,” he pushed on, a worried tremor to his words. “This was the best way to intervene.”

You’re lying, Cat wanted to snap, to throw his falsehoods back in his face. It would certainly make things easier to simply hate Jasper Fell. But she saw the truth in him anyway, much as she did not want to. Ten years ago, he had tried to help her on the deck of a doomed ship. And much as she wished he wouldn’t, Fell did the same now. Her teeth clenched, chewing on the implication. And what else lay beneath.

“You are not the type to give gifts without expecting something in return,” Cat said, her voice low and hissing.

His lips curled, but not into a smile.

“No, I am not,” Fell replied, echoing the same words spoken in another time. In another life.

Cat could only draw herself up tall and survey him again. To balance the Fell she knew once and the man in front of her now. So much had changed, and yet nothing at all.

“So you saved me from the noose just to put me on your leash,” she said.

Fell raised his scarred eyebrow. “Better a living dog than a dead wolf, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Better to be neither,” Cat muttered, shaking her head. “It’s clear you knew.”

At that, Fell’s smirk returned tenfold. “I know many things. Please be more specific.”

“You knew Osprin would do anything to find Kane, to reward the captain who brought him down,” she said. “And you knew you couldn’t find him without me. Is that the shape of it, Captain Fell?”

“That is the shape of it, Lady Rose. You can thank me for saving your life whenever suits.”

“Thank you,” she growled, though it sounded more like a curse. Even so, Fell puffed up like a rooster. “Now that’s settled, I trust you can chart a course to Prospera easily enough. More specifically, to the port of Alvaris.”

The captain deflated immediately, his face going tight.

“You want me to take a ship of His Majesty’s navy to Prospera?” he spat, his satisfaction turning to disgust. “I will not—”

With only inches between them, it was easy for Cat to put out an arm, her fingers closing on the edge of his vest. The rough fabric slid between her fingers, and Fell clamped his mouth shut.

Her voice dropped, softer and deeper.

“This is not a ship of the navy, and you are not a king’s officer. Besides, the war is over. The treaties are drawn. Prospera is as good as neutral ground as we can find, only a week away, and the best chance for news of Kane’s whereabouts.” Cat glanced up at Fell through her lashes, weighing his pride. “You have no cause to fear the Esperese anymore.”

His nose wrinkled, and he looked over her head.

“I do not fear them, I hate them,” he said through clenched teeth.

She did not need to read his mind to know what Fell thought. He had not forgotten the burning of Allisport all those years ago, when the war had run hot as sparked powder. Nor what came after they learned the news of the conquered city. The Venerable burned and broken, her crew dead, the ruin of Fell’s best posting in the Lyrian Sea.

“But do you hate them more than you hate pirates?” Her grip tightened on his vest. “More than you hate Kane?”

His silver eyes flared, and Cat dared to hope.

“What of Arcayo?” he said stiffly.

She did not move, still close enough to smell the sandalwood oil on his skin. Her pulse quickened.

Fell’s breath feathered her cheek, drawing closer in a dangerous way. “You said it yourself; Valerian kept a home on the island. And I am sure you are intimately acquainted with it.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Jasper,” she replied, smoothing his vest again. For all his posturing, Fell flinched under her hands. “But I am familiar with Arcayo and Nera. Enough to know Valerian would hardly keep a pirate armada in port, and risk drawing your fleet anywhere near that city.”

She brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from his shoulder, as if the state of his clothing was more interesting than the conversation.