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“I bet.”
Down the stairs we go, past the sleeping crew, and into the brig. Riden shoves me back into my cell. Then he tries the key.
Obviously, it doesn’t fit.
Riden observes it more closely. Surprise takes over his face. “You switched them.”
“Hmm?” I ask innocently.
He comes into the cell with me. “Give it to me.”
“What?”
“The key.”
“You have the key in your hand.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“You can hardly blame me if you broke it.”
I don’t expect him to buy any of what I say. I’m learning that I enjoy toying with him. I like the surprise and… not respect, but something close to it, that shows on his face when he learns something new about me. But I can’t let him discover too much about my true nature. That’d be dangerous.
For him.
Because I won’t fail. I can only imagine what my father would do to me if I did. But I’m not afraid. I’m doing this not only for my father but also because I want to. Because I’m a good pirate and the hunt is thrilling. Because I want to reach the siren island as much as any other pirate. Perhaps even more so. I’m determined to dowhateverit takes to get the map. If Riden becomes too difficult, I will remove him from my path by any means necessary.
“I’ll give you one more chance to hand it over, princess.”
It’s brighter down here. Several lanterns are lit outside the cells. I can see Riden’s face perfectly. In the getup he’s wearing, I can see a lot of him perfectly.
“I don’t have anything,” I say again.
He steps toward me slowly, keeping his eyes on mine as he does so. I back up until I hit the wall, but he continues to advance. His face is too close. I can see flecks of gold in his eyes. They’re lovely eyes. I’d like to study them longer.
But suddenly his hands are on my hips.
I think I might stop breathing, but I’m unsure. I’m startled, certainly; am I supposed to slap his hands away or stand still?
He moves his hands up my stomach, never taking his eyes off me. Now I know I’m breathing because I think I might have just gasped. I’m pretty sure I should slap his hands away.
But I don’t. Once he reaches my ribs, he moves his hands to my arms, running them up to my shoulder.
“I don’t know what you’re wearing,” he says. “But I like it.”
“Custom-made,” I say.
“And then stolen by you?”
I shrug. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re touching me.”
“I’m trying to get my key back.”
“Sounds like an excuse to touch me.”
