Page 38 of Seaborn and the Seven Seas

Fine. Don’t answer my questions.

I stared at the blue stain after Theron’s footsteps faded. The crate. The oclego. My blood. They were connected. I felt it in my bones. I just couldn’t see how yet.

I never heard him coming. A blade found my throat and a thick arm clamped around my waist, pinning me against a chest.

“Don’t scream, or that’ll be the end of you.”

I knew that voice. Barron. Why? Too much ale?

“What is the matter with—” Theron’s voice cut off, halting mid-step. “What are you doing, Barron?” he snarled.

“Open the crate.” Barron’s grip tightened, the blade pressing harder. “Or the Seaborn dies.”

Theron examined his nails. “Fine by me.”

“What?” Barron’s arm jerked, the blade biting closer.

If he pressed any harder, I was going to bleed. I couldn’t let anyone see the color of my blood.

“Theron.” My voice came out strangled. “Theron!”

He didn’t even look at me. He looked bored. Like this was an inconvenience before bed.

“You think I care what happens to some girl I picked up off a dock? Save us both the trouble and kill her. Then I’ll snap your neck and we can all move on with our night.”

Barron hesitated. I felt it, the slightest loosening of his arm, a fraction of doubt.

That was all I needed.

I drove my elbow back into his ribs as hard as I could, twisting free of his grip. The blade scraped my collarbone—a thin line of fire—but I was already yanking my dagger free from where it sat hidden in my secret pants pocket.

Barron’s eyes dropped to my cut and went wild. His grip slackened for a second from the shock, or maybe fear, and in that half second the cut sealed itself like it had never been opened.

Barron lunged after me, cursing. I ducked under his swing and spun to face him, dagger raised. The movement came easy. Like my body already knew how to defend and attack, like I’d done it a hundred times before in some life I couldn’t recall.

“Touch me again,” I said, “and you’ll bleed worse than I will.”

Barron laughed, short, ugly, and swung the blade toward me. I ducked under it, the way I’d watched Theron move in that tavern, but a boot connected with the back of my knees and I went down hard, Barron’s weight crashing on top of me, his good hand closing around my throat.

My grip on the dagger held. I drove it toward him, but his other hand caught my wrist, slamming it against the floor. The dagger skittered free, just out of reach.

“Little bitch—”

The crate rattled violently behind us, the chain groaning. Whatever was inside could sense the violence and wanted out.

“Actually, her name is Little Star. But only I can call her that.”

One moment Barron was on top of me, the next he was gone, hauled off and slammed against the wall hard enough to splinter the wood. Theron’s forearm pressed into his throat, pinning him.

“Who sent you?”

Barron’s eyes darted to me, then back to Theron, his face reddening as the pressure increased. He said nothing.

“Who. Sent. You.” Theron’s voice dropped lower with each word.

“Nobody—” Barron gasped for air. “The bounty on Seaborns. I could’ve sold her myself, made more than you’d ever—”

Theron’s eyes had gone fully dark, no blue left at all. “After I saved your ass, this is how you thank me?”