Page 139 of The Worst of Them

“Forget what I said last night,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “It was a vile manipulation from a sickness I couldn’t control. Yes, I already knew what you were, and it changed nothing for me.”

He didn’t seem entirely assured as shame lingered in the tightness of his lips. She understood, unfortunately, that the cuts on his arms attested only to the lies she’d told. Her only option was to keep assuring him until he either believed it or she had a chance to prove herself.

Idly scratching at the blood on her nails, she asked, “You fought so hard to keep me here in spite of all that?”

“Keeping you with me was never in question,” he said in the same tone, though sadness still lingered in his gaze. “However, it was perhaps the first time I wished we were less equally matched.” He leaned closer. She thought he was about to kiss her, felt her insides began to glitter, until he began to speak again.

“There is so much more I must tell you,” he whispered. “There are so many things we dare not speak on this ship because there’s too much risk, too many repercussions and listening ears, but I will tell you soon. Once we’re on land where I’m no longer bound by my father’s laws, I’ll explain everything, what I am⁠—”

The captain’s door opened, and Jack’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

“She lives,” drawled Copson’s voice.

Cecily didn’t look away from Jack as he faced his father. He was so quickly silenced by the captain’s presence. These secrets, whatever they were, would be deadly for them—and for her. And Jack clearly preferred that Copson remained ignorant to her knowing.

She pushed to her feet, annoyed by the interruption. Jack rose too, his shoulders stiff as Copson came to stand by them.

“I suppose it’s true then,” the captain said, eyeing Cecily with morbid interest. “The siren-sick must rely on others to care enough to save them.”

Her stomach twisted. Instead of trading insults with her father-in-law, she turned on her heel and strode for the bucket of water they kept by the rail. She plunged her hands into it and began furiously scrubbing at the blood on her fingers.

“Father,” Jack chided from behind her. “Spare us this morning.”

Unfortunately, Copson had no intention of sparing anyone as he followed and braced one hip against the rail next to her.

“I believe it was you I heard,” Cecily grumbled at him, “giving advice that would save me.”

“Don’t make it into something it’s not,” Copson said. “I may not care for you, but I’ve never wanted you dead. I wouldn’t mind a few more like you—people who slay monsters and live to tell the tale.”

Slaying monsters didn’t feel impressive when she couldn’t dislodge her husband’s blood from beneath her nails. It had dried in the ridges her of fingerprints, stubborn against her washing. The longer it held, the deeper her mortification buried itself in her stomach.

“What the hell are you doing?” Copson asked mildly.

Cecily ripped her hands from the bucket and held them up, water dripping down into her sleeves as she showed her stained fingers to the captain. Her heart thundered, shoving guilt through veins that felt too small to hold the excess of it.

Copson raised one brow. “What should I be seeing?”

“The blood,” she snapped.

Jack came to stand at her side, surveying her skin. She was tempted to hide the proof of what she’d done to him, regardless of whether he’d already seen it. But then he asked, “What blood?”

Cecily might have thought he was teasing had he not looked entirely sincere. She gasped as Copson took her wrist in a steel grip and looked closely at her fingers.

“You see blood,” he said.

Now she wasn’t so sure, but her fingers were tipped with red, her skin stained with it. “Do you not?”

He gave her a wary glance, his brows knitted. She stared back in silent confirmation that she was not taking him for a fool.

“Your hands are clean,” the captain said. “There’s nothing there.” Her stomach dropped, but he allowed no time for follow-up questions as he let go and turned to his son. “You.”

“What,” Jack said.

“You look like you’re about to snap someone’s neck.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed into his familiar glare. “Perhaps it’s not my best morning, considering the events of the last twenty-four hours.”

The captain studied them both. He scanned the ship and scented the breeze, steeping himself in the wrongness that had hung over them since Vanetta’s death the day before.