Page 40 of The Worst of Them

The edge of his mouth lifted. “You think so?”

It was too much levity—the truce was too long. She lifted one shoulder. “Good enough.” His fighting was perfect, as a matter of fact, and she disliked thinking of it now as it increased the pressure behind her ribs.

“I have some notes for you as well,” he said.

“I’ll be glad to hear them.” She ripped her eyes from his lips when she realized she was staring at his smirk. Stepping back, she braced herself against the mast. “Why were you watching?”

The longer Jack stood there, the more his presence smothered the chill in her veins. “Because you’re defiant and cunning, and any mistake you made would be on my head. I had to watch you.” He drew in a slow breath. “And I saw Hester was about to die and no one else seemed to notice. Except for you.”

She folded her arms, grumbling, “Someone should have been there for her.”

“Greyson feels awful.”

“He should. Everyone should. It’s a miracle so many untrained idiots didn’t kill themselves with their own swords.”

“I had already warned the captain about the same thing you told me. I saw it too, you know, but he didn’t listen. My hands were tied.” His next words came slower, as though he were taking time to add weight to each one. “But thankfully you were there.”

She chanced a glance at him, wondering how he could send warmth skating over her skin with his voice alone. “Are you mocking me?” She genuinely couldn’t tell.

He shook his head then jerked his chin at her pocket, speaking softly, like they were friends sharing a secret. “Truce, remember?”

“I didn’t know it would last so long.”

He was still the cutting, terrible man he’d always been, but now there was a glimmer of something—like kindness or camaraderie. “I thought a knife might buy me more time than a coin. I intended it to.”

After a too-long moment, she caught her breath and looked ahead. The breeze wasn’t enough to cool the heat in her cheeks, and her beautiful coat suddenly felt much too warm—actually warm when she had been frozen for nearly a year. “Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy our verbal sparring, Jack. How else would we amuse ourselves while everyone else is off making love and merry?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m not opposed to finding out.” With that, he pushed away from the mast and crossed toward the door leading to the stairs below deck. The night chill swept into her coat, dragging icy fingers over her skin.

Cecily slid around the side of the mast to watch him go, heart in her throat. “Jack.”

She had no idea what to say when he turned to look at her—only that she was shocked and burning from the inside out. So she stared at him, wondering why the tension between them felt so different tonight. It was still there, still fraught and terrible, but now there was a warmth that she was very tempted to bask in.

Jack filled the silence for her. “Are you going to tell me the offer’s still open?” He spoke with his usual sarcasm, but now there was an undercurrent of friendly teasing. “My, what a truce.”

She anchored one hand against the mast, as though it would steady whatever swirled inside her. “I didn’t mean it. What I said earlier. What I offered.”

He smirked. “I know.”

Panic crested as he turned to leave. The warmth inside her hadn’t faded, and she wanted to keep hold of it because it felt good. Safe. Comforting.

So words burst from her—truthful ones she never would have said if she’d had time to think. They ripped from her putrid little heart, flinging themselves into the night like a desperate offering for just one more moment of whatever it was that made her feel not so much like a beast.

“But even if I had meant it, do you think—” Oh no. “—do you think you’d deserve me?”

Oh God. Oh God, it sounded like an offer, but it wasn’t. It was desperation, a fear she’d hidden deep within the dark cellar of her little home.

With Oliver, she had never wondered if she was good enough. Now, after everything, was she worthy of being deserved? She wanted to be, but she wasn’t sure if a pirate was the best person to ask. If he said he did deserve her, if she was worthy of being a sinful pirate’s prize, would that mean she’d be a better man’s punishment?

And to ask Jack of all people. She shouldn’t care what he thought or what it would say about her if he answered one way or another. But here she was, hardly daring to breathe because she wanted to know how he judged her, simply because he was as smart and wicked as she, and he’d been watching, seeing everything that happened on his ship in a way that others didn’t. And for some reason, despite these past days, she trusted him, and she trusted his judgment.

And she was afraid of it.

He regarded her for a long moment. She did the same, searching for some subtle answer for what he’d done to her to make her feel and think this way. Any answer would suffice—anything to release the tension in her chest.

But all he said was, “Goodnight, Cecily.”

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