Page 77 of The Worst of Them

He considered. “I am known for many things, but I’ve never stolen anyone. My reputation⁠—”

“Pretend you’re desperate for me,” she said sharply. “You’re good at that.”

He grunted out what might have been a laugh. “You severely underestimate my affection for you.” He took another drink and set his glass on the table. “Alright. Suppose I steal you away. I assume there would be no heist. The others will never forgive me if I don’t show.”

“Blame me for that too. What will it matter if they never see me again?”

“And I suppose I’d steal you because you’re so irresistible?” His tone was sarcastic, but his dark eyes dipped to her lips. “And you’d hide away with me for the next several days—weeks, really—on a ship.” A sardonic grin. “That’s quite a bit of inconvenience.”

Irritation flared, made worse by nerves that sang of imminent danger. She hid it with a smile as languid as Hein’s.

“Inconvenience?” It was not difficult to make her voice breathy and seductive. “I thought we were friends.”

He took her face in his hand, his thumb and forefinger bracketing her jaw while the rest of his fingers rested against the side of her neck. “There is nothing,” he said, his velvety words hard as steel, “that I’ve ever done out of the goodness of my heart, even for friends. And you’re asking for an awful lot—my alliances, my protection, my reputation that I’ve so carefully built. And for what?”

Desperation turned her will to ice and stone. She let her eyelids flutter, as though she couldn’t help it, as though his closeness meant anything to her. Her mind reeled, consulting a mental calendar, spinning a new plan in the space of a breath, which she used to whisper a single lie:

“I’ll be twenty in two months.”

It was the right thing to say. Hein’s eyes sparked with interest.

“If you want to play a real game with me,” she went on, keeping herself from trembling at the risky words she uttered to an unpredictable, villainous man, “then get me off this godforsaken island. Hide me. Take me to Spain.”

Hein would never have her. It would take less than two months to get to Spain, and she would be gone the moment they docked. Then she would flee to another ship—hell, she’d swim back to England, and then she’d get her home and her life, and there would be no Jack, no prison, and all of this would fade into memory so hazy that she would convince herself she’d dreamed it.

His eyes were nearly black. “You’re sure?”

Without a moment to think, she took his face in her hands and crushed her lips to his. She’d never kissed anyone and worried she’d done something wrong when he went rigid. But she held tight, her eyes shut, and slowly—ever so slowly—his arm moved from the back of the bench, dropping to her shoulders and then her waist. His fingers on her chin slid to the side of her face, and he relaxed, pulled her closer, and his lips parted, his tongue searching.

It was too fast, too much to give to a man she didn’t want. She set her palms against his chest and gently pushed. Hein gave way, leaning back only enough so that their lips no longer touched.

“You win,” he whispered. By the heady look in his eyes, she wondered if he’d stop caring that she was nineteen. “I’ll take you with me… But what about Jack?”

She reached for his drink and downed what little he had left, barely keeping herself from choking against the burn. “I am not his,” she said thickly. “And I never will be.”

Hein smiled and swept a thumb over his full bottom lip. She was about to remind him of his rule, if only to swear she’d hold him to it, when a rough shout tore through the tavern.

“Cecily. Shoard.”

Her heart kicked into a sprint as the room fell silent.

Jack Copson stalked across the crowded tavern, his eyes set with fury. The top of his shirt hung open, and sweat gleamed at the base of his throat, his skin shining as his shoulders heaved with breath. His hair was windblown, like he’d run here.

Hein laughed quietly to himself, settling back into his seat with all his usual confidence. Jack strolled through the ranks of Spanish sailors and stopped before their table, glaring at Cecily.

“You—”

A uniformed sailor clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Quick as a whip, Jack grabbed the hand, yanked the sailor forward, and slammed the man’s head into the table. Before he could fall to the floor, Jack’s knives were in his hands and flying into the throats of two more approaching soldiers. Another came up behind him, and Jack forced him to the table, twisting his arm until the man cried in pain, then screamed as his shoulder audibly popped.

Jack turned his furious gaze on the officer, growling, “Call off your dogs, Hein.”

Hein held up a hand. “Stand down,” he called to his men. “This is Jack Copson.”

Recognition ripped through the tavern as the patrons realized pirate royalty stood in their midst. No one was safe from him—or from his father, should they choose to antagonize his heir.

Jack yanked the man off the table and shoved him toward the others. The sailor grunted loudly, pale and sweating profusely as he clutched his dislocated shoulder.

“There’s no trouble, Jack,” Hein said serenely.