POV: Beth
Dawn crept over the port like a blade—cold, silver, merciless. Seagulls screeched overhead, waves slapped against wood, and the entire world smelled like salt and morning regret.
I barely slept.
Rowan’s execution date carved itself behind my eyelids every time I closed them. Two weeks. Fourteen days. I counted breaths instead of sheep.
When the first light touched the window of the tavern’s upper floor—the crew asleep in scattered rooms, drunk on rum and temporary victory—I slipped from my bed, laced my boots with shaking fingers, and wrapped my cloak tight.
No time to waste.
I crept down the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. The wooden floor groaned under my weight like a traitor. My heartbeat was thunder—terrified, determined, ready to risk everything.
I had reached the back door when—
“Leaving without me?”
His voice froze me like winter water.
Alaric leaned against the wall near the exit, shirt loose, hair a dark mess falling into his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. Like he’d waited. On purpose.
His expression wasn’t soft—it was furious quiet, the kind that comes from worry so deep it turns to iron.
“You planned to sneak out while I slept,” he said, stepping closer. “Like I’m nothing. Like we didn’t stand together last night.”
“That was last night,” I shot back. “Rowan doesn’t have much time. I can’t wait around for you to make decisions by committee.”
Alaric’s jaw clenched, muscles ticking. “You think I’d stop you?”
“You always stop me.”
He let out a humorless breath. “Because you rush into death with the confidence of a queen and the planning skills of a drunk sailor.”
A spark lit inside me—angry, defensive, hurt.
“I’m not some porcelain noble girl anymore.”
He stepped into my space, eyes burning. “I know that.”
But instead of feeling comforted, I felt cornered—by fear, by love, by destiny.
“Then let me go.”
“No.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Heat rose under my skin. “You don’t get to command me.”
“You’re right,” he breathed, voice low and raw. “I don’t want to command you. I want you alive.”
It should’ve soothed me. It didn’t.
“I don’t need permission to save the only father I ever had.”
Alaric’s nostrils flared. “And I don’t need permission to tear England apart if they touch one hair on your head.”
We stood inches apart—breathing hard, fury and desire mixed like oil and flame. The pale morning light cut across his cheek, revealing everything he tried to hide—exhaustion, fear, love he refused to name out loud.
He reached for my wrist. I pulled back.
“You said you meant it,” I whispered, voice cracking. “All of it. Was that another pirate lie?”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
He grabbed the doorknob, slammed it shut, and pinned me between door and chest—not violently, but with desperation, agony, need. His breath ghosted my temple. His hands trembled against the wood beside my head.
He was breaking. So was I.
“Beth,” he rasped, “I woke every hour to check if you were still here.”
I swallowed lightning.
“I’m trying to save Rowan.”
“I know.” His voice softened, trembling. “But who saves you?”
I should’ve stepped away.
Instead, I lifted my chin—defiant.
“Do you care?”
He laughed under his breath—broken, angry at himself. “I care too much.”
The world tilted.
I shoved him back by the chest—hard.
“Then say it,” I demanded. “Stop hiding behind jokes and pride. Say it or let me go.”
The silence between us tightened like rope.
Alaric’s gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes—tortured, hungry, furious.
“You want the truth?” he growled. “Fine.”
His hand gripped the back of my neck—firm, reverent. I sucked in a breath.
“I tried to hate you.”
Pain stabbed. “You failed.”
“I failed,” he admitted. “Every damn day.”
My heartbeat drowned out the sea.
He stepped closer until our foreheads touched—a collision instead of an embrace. His voice was barely a breath.
“I love you, Beth.”
The tavern walls disappeared. The port noises vanished. My world shrank to the space between his lips and mine.
I didn’t think. I crashed into him like storm hitting cliff.
Our mouths met—fierce, desperate, months of tension exploding into fire. His hands slammed around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I fisted his shirt, dragging him closer, tasting rum and salt and everything forbidden.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was war turned kiss.
He backed me into the nearest table, knocking cups over. Somewhere downstairs someone cursed at the noise but I didn’t care. His lips trailed down my jaw, my throat—hot, hungry.
“I should stop,” he breathed against my skin.
“Then stop,” I whispered.
He didn’t.
We stumbled into the nearest room—mine—door slamming behind us. His coat dropped to floor. My cloak fell after. Boots hit wood. Fingers tangled in hair. Breathless laughter, anger, relief.
He kissed me like drowning. I kissed him like salvation.
He carried me to bed, laid me down, hovered above me—eyes dark, asking without words.
I answered by pulling him down.
His hands slid under fabric, tracing scars he watched form across months. I grazed my fingers down his spine—he shuddered.
He whispered my name like prayer, like curse.
Clothes fell away—piece by piece, kiss by kiss.
The world narrowed to heat, skin, heartbeat, surrender.
***
When dawn settled golden across tangled sheets, we lay chest to chest—sweaty, breathless, alive.
Alaric brushed hair from my forehead, voice hoarse.
“You’re not going to England alone.”
I touched his cheek—thumb brushing stubble, almost tender.
“No,” I whispered. “We go together.”
For Rowan.
For war. For us. Because love, like the sea, doesn’t ask permission.