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His words are like a punch to my chest. “He’s dead because of me.” Because of my bluff.
Zander studies me a moment, as if weighing the wave of guilt surging through me. “He was dead the moment Abarrane captured him. In truth, he got a more merciful death than the others will face. You helped him in that way.”
“Why don’t I feel better, then,” I mutter.
“Would knowing he killed the tributary bring you comfort?”
“Did he?”
Zander shrugs. “I do not know, but he was an accomplice, at minimum, and surely he has blood on his hands.”
Don’t we all. “Why is Bexley so anxious to feed off a Ybarisan, anyway?”
“Because Ybarisan blood is intoxicating. Most Islorians have never had the opportunity to taste it.” He turns to meet my gaze. “She can’t harm you.”
“I know. But it’s weird, having someone openly lust over feeding on me like I’m a slice of chocolate cake.”
“Is it any different from having someone openly lust over you in other ways?” he asks quietly, his eyes dropping to my mouth. We’re sitting so close I can pick out the gold flecks in his irises within the lantern light.
I assume he’s testing me again, but even being aware of that, my heart instantly races. The air in our private cubby thickens, the sounds of laughter and muted conversation surrounding us heady.
Something drastic is shifting between us, and quickly.
Zander swallows. He senses it too.
But then his attention snaps toward the drawn curtain. “I do not know what methods Bexley will employ with this man, but keep your composure and tell her nothing.”
Atticus draws the curtain back, and Bexley slides in with feline grace. Alongside her is a sturdy man of about forty with striking pale-blue eyes and golden skin, weathered, likely by years of sea and sun. He offers nothing, not even a stiff smile, as he eyes first Zander and then me, lingering on my face a beat too long for my liking. But there is no flare of shock, no nervous fidgeting. It doesn’t seem he recognizes—or even suspects—who he’s sitting across from. That’s a welcome relief.
A server sets three mugs of ale on the table—one in front of the captain, the others in front of me and Zander—and then quietly vanishes.
Bexley winks at me. “On the house.”
“What do ya want?” The captain’s voice is deep and gruff and laced with a heavy accent.
“Now, Kaders, that’s no way to behave with my friends,” Bexley croons, resting her arm against the back of the bench so she can twirl one of his sun-kissed curls with her fingers.
“Every time you ask me for a favor, I’ll wager it somehow ends up costin’ me more than it does you.”
“And I’ll wager you don’t mind paying the price,” she retorts.
His focus drifts down the front of her dress—half her nipples are still on display—but he doesn’t respond.
“They have some questions about your passengers, particularly any casters you might have had on board.”
“Through Skatrana,” Zander adds, his hands folded tidily beside his mug of ale. He hasn’t reached for it.
“Aye, I always have a caster with me to keep wind blowin’ in our sails and tame those dreaded sirens.”
“Not the casters under Seacadorian employ. Passengers seeking voyage to Cirilea.”
Recognition flickers in the captain’s eyes. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough that my heart skips a beat with excitement.
But he says nothing.
Zander casually reaches down to fish out a handful of coins from his money sack. He stacks them in a tidy pile between the ale glasses.
“Aye, there was a caster who came into port with me. She stayed below deck and didn’t bother much.”
