Page 54 of The Worst of Them

“Were you merely some troublesome girl, I’d cast you off this ship.” Copson didn’t raise his voice, but he was no less intimidating. “But I collect talents and debts, which are worth more to me than your attitude. And should you threaten my peace, I will threaten you much worse.” He waved them off. “We’re done.”

Cecily barely kept herself from sprinting for the door.

13

THE LAND WAR

The moment the Fortuna Royale docked, the crew practically fled in their eagerness to descend on the lush, tropical island to sell their plunder and buy whatever their hearts desired, whether it was booze, food, or flesh.

Forty taverns, she heard them say of the pirate haven. And sixteen hundred harlots.

There was one church, its wooden steeple rising over crowded dirt streets lined with homes and businesses. Perhaps she’d go there and beg for forgiveness, mercy, grace, and a miraculous way out of her predicament.

By the gangplank, Greyson handed out bags of gold while Hester minded a list of names and numbers. Cecily sat on a crate nearby, her legs curled to her chest and a pack slung over her shoulders, which held her coat and her own sack of gold.

She wouldn’t tell Hester about Copson’s threat. Hester hadn’t even known Cecily was planning to leave, and now she’d never have to. There was no way out, unless she somehow convinced Hester and Greyson to run with her—and quickly, because she had no doubt Copson would have his ways of knowing if someone fled. And if he found them, he would kill them.

Slowly, probably. In front of everyone. In front of Jack.

Would Jack smile during her execution or glare at her to the bitter end? Maybe he’d carry it out himself. That would be a fitting end to their relationship.

He stood near Greyson, scowling while the last of the pirates collected their pay. He’d probably watch her even closer now to save face with his father and save himself and his friend in case she decided to run.

As soon as the last name was checked off the list, Greyson and Hester shouldered their bags and descended the gangplank.

Cecily slid off her crate and followed. Jack didn’t look at her as she trudged by, but she bore the oppressive heat of his gaze on the back of her neck as they wound through the floating docks. She did her best to ignore it—and then forgot about it entirely as she stepped onto solid land for the first time in two months.

It was resolute, unmoving, and left her completely off balance. She stopped, staring at the ground as though it might tilt and buck to chase her back onto the ship.

Jack shoved past her, knife hilts glinting in the hidden pockets of his vest and the sheaths strapped to his thigh. “Keep up,” he grumbled. He didn’t look back to make sure she did.

Greyson led the way through the city. The streets were loud and already pocked with drunks and brawls despite it being just shy of noon. The sound of coins and shuffling cards drifted from gambling houses and the smell of fresh meat and flowing ale wafted through doors. Scantily clad women leaned in brothel doorways and batted their lashes at everyone who passed—though there were some who did not leer, who sat in windows high above the ground and stared at nothing as they waited.

Cecily already hated it here. Hated this island and its people. Hated how it made her feel sticky and itchy, as though every gaze that raked down her skin left something behind. She hated that she was stuck here out of love for Hester who looked so happy to be in a place that felt like hell.

Her past was taunting her, and she only wanted to run.

Jack and Greyson had drawn knives, which hung casually by their sides as their eyes swept over the buildings and the street ahead. Their surroundings shifted as they moved through the city, and while there were still taverns and brothels and dens, now there were also men in blue uniforms with red cuffs.

“The Spanish have the island,” Greyson told Hester. “But so do pirates, so we have an understanding—we don’t kill them, and they can profit off our loot. For now.”

When the city fell away a half hour later, they came upon a two-story inn at the edge of a buzzing forest dripping with vines and the greenest leaves Cecily had ever seen. The street was mostly empty, and the men’s knives had vanished back into their sheaths.

Greyson led Hester inside, his face lit with excitement. Cecily made to follow, her legs burning—she hadn’t walked so much in ages—but then Jack stopped. He’d ignored her since they left the docks, and she’d done the same, content to pretend the wound on her heart wasn’t throbbing with every second that passed.

She would have continued ignoring him, but he snatched her hand as she passed. With a swift jerk, he dragged her off the road and into the forest.

Some small part of her heart lifted as she followed on aching feet, hoping he’d taken her hand for some other reason than to fight with her. It was a foolish hope, and she regretted even letting herself wonder.

When the road was out of sight and they were hidden among the trees behind the inn, Jack abruptly released her hand. She staggered and caught herself before she could go sprawling into the dirt.

Jack stalked a few paces away, the dappled sunlight playing over his broad shoulders as they rose with a deep breath.

“I tried to leave,” she said, bracing herself.

He whirled on her, his face torqued with fury. “Did you? Did you really try? And did that look like pulling my knife on Morgyn when we were very nearly off the ship?”

“Oh, now it’s your knife⁠—”