Page 38 of The Worst of Them

Someday. She’d hold it all tenderly someday, but for now she was not tender, so the far edges of her grief ran silently from one eye with little fanfare.

Bootsteps sounded over the deck, and she knew it was Jack before he spoke.

“Cold, Cecily?”

It didn’t sound like a taunt, but it most certainly was. He leaned against the mast, bracing his arm above her head. His coat hung open, exposing the litany of knives still decked to his body.

Armed to the teeth.

She shook her head, ignoring the thought. “Not in the slightest,” she answered, not bothering to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. “I have this new coat.”

“Red suits you.”

“I prefer purple, but red is fine.”

He shifted on his feet, the hilts in his vest glinting in the moonlight. “So who were these men you killed?” His tone was casual as though he spoke about the sky or the sea, but he couldn’t fully conceal his interest—or, she suspected, he didn’t intend to hide it.

She scrubbed her hand under her nose. “Society snobs. You wouldn’t know them.”

His sky-blue eyes were steady on her face, his fair hair blowing in the breeze. “You never answered when I asked if your victims deserved it.” The barest hint of annoyance glinted through his words like an iron thread. “Was it too hard to damn them?”

“I wasn’t sure.” It was shameful, really—both that she had murdered and was capable of feeling bad about it in spite of the circumstances.

His voice came sharper, like he spoke to a verifiable idiot. “Cecily.”

“Well, I wasn’t in my right mind, and everyone else seemed to believe I was wrong.” She held his gaze, that single drying tear cold on her cheek. “I’m still not in my right mind. Who’s to say?”

“I say. They deserved it.”

“They didn’t touch me.”

She didn’t know if she was justifying their innocence or why. Maybe—and this was a very small maybe—she wanted to hear someone defend her. Anyone, really, even a handsome, wicked pirate who was no better than she was.

She had hardly noticed herself beginning to trust Jack. She hated him, of course, but she always knew what to expect with him to the point of predictability. He was consistent in a way only Hester had been, and his calculated conniving was easy to match with her own.

Yes, she despised him, but she was also beginning to feel something else that wasn’t completely dark and dreadful.

“Don’t defend them,” he said, as though he’d heard her thoughts. “Lord, Cecily, have you lost your heart for everything including yourself?”

Her face pinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re nineteen. You’ve barely lived. It’s too soon to act like you deserve nothing.”

She folded her arms, shielding herself from all he said. “I deserve things.”

“Like what? Tell me one thing.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Death was her first thought, but that was more out of habit than true belief. Then she thought of her house—but she didn’t think she deserved it. She wanted it and would have it, but deserving was another thing entirely.

She didn’t know what she was worthy of anymore, but she couldn’t admit that to Jack. Sinking against the mast, she rubbed her arms. “This coat.”

“Do you think you deserved it? Or did you take something you liked because you were robbing the ship anyway?”

She rolled her eyes. “God, Jack.”

He grinned. “I like being right, and I’m right about you.”

“You make me cold,” she said. “Frigid, actually.”