POV: Beth
Morning haze hangs over the pirate port like fog made of sweat and rum. My arms burn from training, skin bruised where Alaric’s blade tapped me again and again. A bruise beneath my ribs throbs with each breath—reminder of how many times he knocked me to the ground. I lost every spar. Every strike. Every attempt at dignity.
Alaric didn’t soften his blows just because I was crying by the end.
He only said, “Good. Pain teaches faster than comfort.”
I hated him then. I hate him now.
By afternoon, a messenger dock rat runs through the port waving a rolled parchment. “News from the crown! All prisoners moved! New security! Word spreads fast!”
The name that follows cleaves my chest in half.
“Governor Rowan is moved to the high palace fortress!”
Everything inside me stills. Then shatters. They moved him Farther from freedom. Farther from me.
I step forward before I can think. “When? Why?”
The rat eyes my stolen pirate clothes warily. “Says execution date may be set soon. The King's court demands an example. Pirate blood must bleed.”
My knees weaken. Breath things. Alaric steps behind me, unreadable. Kaine stands to the side with crossed arms, shark tooth charm dangling from his ear.
“They’re preparing to kill him,” I whisper.
Silence pulses like a wound. Not silence—slowing heartbeat. Inside me, hope bleeds into rage. I will not let Rowan die. Not for blood, not even mine. Not like this.
I turn toward Alaric with raw fire. “We have to get him out. We have to go back. We have to—”
“We?” Alaric cuts in, amused brows raised. “Bold word for someone who still swings a knife like she’s swatting flies.”
I want to hit him.
Kaine snorts. “He’s right. You’d die before stepping through palace gates.”
“I’ll learn.” My voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I’ll train harder. I can sneak in—”
“Alone? Suicide.” Alaric shrugs, as though Rowan’s life weighs less than a glass of rum. “And right now we have bigger things to settle.”
“Bigger than my father’s life?”
Alaric meets my stare without flinching. “Bigger than your guilt.”
Pain flares. Sharp. Cruel. He sees it and doesn’t apologize.
***
The night breaks.
By nightfall, Alaric wanders off. Kaine mutters something about “old habits” and “every king returns to his vices” before leaving as well.
I lie awake in the corner of our temporary shelter—a half-rotten warehouse that reeks of fish and wet wood—staring at the ceiling. Rain taps rhythm at the roof. Wind howls against shutters like something alive.
Rowan sits alone in a fortress. Waiting for death.
And Alaric? Laughing somewhere. Drinking. Surrounded by women.
My jaw tightens.
Eventually, I stand. Pulling hood low, I walk through a muddy street glow lit by lanterns. Music spills from tavern doors, laughter spilling like blood.
I find him in the third tavern—obvious from volume alone.
A woman sits on each of his knees. One with raven hair runs fingers along his jaw. The other whispers in his ear, giggling as Alaric smirks, one arm loosely around each waist. Rum pours like a river, cards scatter before them. He looks—alive, wild, sin made flesh.
He looks like everything I was raised to fear.
Everything I refuse to become.
Yet my chest twists painfully. Not love—something uglier. A betrayal that shouldn’t hurt but does.
My father rots in a dungeon while he plays king of lust and rum.
I walk straight into the tavern. People part, surprised—perhaps at my audacity. Or maybe my rage is visible like fire lighting my bones.
Alaric’s eyes flick to me. He doesn’t push women away. He only grins slow, wicked.
“Well, well. The little bride crawls out of her hole.” He lifts his mug. “Join us? Plenty of rum to drown those morals you cling to like drowning sailors to plank.”
I stand before him, chin high. “My father might be scheduled for execution. And you sit here—drinking and collecting women like trophies.”
He raises a brow lazily. “If you wanted my attention, Beth, all you had to do was ask.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks—rage or humiliation, I don’t know. Maybe both.
“You are insufferable,” I hiss.
One woman laughs, leaning closer to him. “She jealous?”
My fists clench. “I am disgusted.”
Alaric leans forward, dismissing them with tilt of head. The women pout but leave—too used to being commanded by him to argue.
Now it’s just us—tension thick as storm air.
“I should thank you,” he says, sliding mug aside. “It’s good to see you finally act like you have teeth.”
“You think this is amusing?”
He stands, towering slightly—heat radiating off him like he’s forged of coals. We are inches apart. His voice drops, low and dangerous.
“You came here alone. In pirate port. At night.” His fingers brush my chin—not gentle, just claiming space. “So either you’re brave… or reckless.”
I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
He laughs—soft, like I’ve entertained him. “Tell me, Beth… would you rather I return to training you? Or return to them?” He nods to women waiting with hungry eyes.
Something inside me snaps. I grab his shirt and shove him back. He barely moves—but surprise glints in eyes. He likes the fight.
“Do you think I care what you do with them?” I spit.
“You came for me.” He leans closer until I feel his breath. “Means you care.”
“I came to remind you of your word—you said you’d help me save Rowan.”
“And I will.” His voice smooths like blade over stone. “But not tonight. Even kings need to drink.”
“You have no crown,” I whisper, stabbing where it hurts.
His jaw ticks. Just once. Fast. But I see it.
Strike landed.
He steps even closer, trapping me between him and table. His hand braces wood beside my hip. Our chests nearly touch—not intimate, but confrontational. Enemy proximity.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re speaking to the man who dragged you from hell.”
“I will speak how I want.”
His breath hovers inches from lips, eyes sharp as storm. “You look like you want to challenge me.”
I don’t look away. “Maybe I do.”
A stir runs through the tavern—the crowd sensing heat.
Alaric’s smile turns wolfish. “Then sharpen your claws, princess. If you want vengeance, power, your father’s freedom—you must earn it.”
“How?”
He leans close enough and whispers brush my ear. “By surviving me.”
A shiver races spine—fear or fury, I refuse to name.
I shove past him, not retreating, but forcing space. “Train me harder then. No more half-effort drills. I need to be strong enough to kill a prince.”
He watches me like something new—something worth noticing.
“No tears tomorrow,” he says. “No excuses.”
“I’ll bleed if I must.”
“Good.” He smirks. “Blood looks better on you than silk.”
Anger explodes through chest. “You are vile.”
“And yet,” he tilts head, “you didn’t run from me.”
I hate that he’s right. Not love—but connection forged in shared danger, fragile and unwelcome.
I turn, cloak snapping. “At dawn. Don’t be late.”
Behind me he calls, voice thick with wicked amusement:
“Oh Beth—I’m never late. I make others wait.”
***
Tonight I walk back alone—not weak like arrival, but burning. Rowan will not die. Adrian will not win. And Alaric Stormborne will not break me.