POV: Beth
Pain woke me before the sun did.
My arm throbbed fiercely from the siren’s claws—four deep gouges crossing from elbow to wrist, flesh torn and swollen. Salt wind stung the open wounds each time the ship rocked. I gritted my teeth and tried tying a fresh cloth around them myself, but my fingers fumbled. Every knot slipped loose. Every pull burned.
Stupid, weak, and useless. The words sounded like Alaric’s voice in my skull.
I nearly ripped the bandage out of frustration when a shadow blocked the lantern light. I didn’t need to look to know who it was—I felt him before I saw him. The air changed when Alaric entered a room, as if it tensed expecting violence, or relief, or both.
“You’ll infect it,” he said, voice flat.
I stiffened. “You care since when?”
He ignored the jab, kneeling beside me without asking permission. A small wooden box clacked against the deck—salves, linen, alcohol, needle. My stomach dropped.
“I don’t need—” I began.
“You do,” he cut sharply. “Unless you want to lose the arm.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he already took my wrist. His grip was firm—not cruel—but enough to silence me. He poured rum over the wound.
Agony seared.
“Ah—!” I choked, jerking. He held me steady effortlessly.
“Hold still.”
“You could warn me!”
“I just did.”
We glared at each other. His eyes were dark under low lantern glow, and for once there was no mockery—only intensity. Heat flickered low in my stomach and I hated it.
“You’re angry,” he noted.
“No,” I hissed. “I’m furious.”
“Good. Anger keeps you alive.”
He cleaned the wound rougher than necessary. I gasped, nails digging into the wood. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
He didn’t deny it.
“You nearly got half my crew drowned,” he said. “Then you killed what should have killed you. I don’t know whether to throw you overboard or crown you.”
A bitter laugh left me. “Let me guess—you lean toward overboard.”
He looked up. And for a terrifying moment, we were too close—his face inches from mine, breath warm, smelling of rum and sea. My pulse jumped.
His voice dropped. “Depends how you behave.”
He stitched the wound. I hissed and tried to pull away—he gripped my jaw with his free hand, making me meet his gaze.
“Stop squirming.”
“Stop manhandling!”
“Then stop acting like a child.”
Rage flared white-hot. “You treat me like one.”
“You act like one.”
My hand moved before thought—I shoved his chest hard. He didn’t budge, only smirked.
“There she is,” he murmured. “The girl who slapped a siren mid-song.”
My breath caught—because under the smirk was something else. Admiration. No—hunger. The kind of hunger that tightens air and makes logic drown.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone to wipe dried blood. The touch shouldn’t have felt gentle—but it did. Too gentle. My skin burned under it.
“Why do you do that?” I whispered.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
His eyes flicked to my lips. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous.
“You want honesty?” he breathed. “Fine. Because half of me wants to shake you until sense returns, and the other half—”
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to.
The silence stretched—electric. Rope-tight. My heart hammered so loud I thought he must hear it. I should have pulled away. I didn’t.
Instead I leaned a breath closer.
He mirrored it.
Our noses almost brushed. His fingers stayed on my jaw—rough, calloused, warm. My eyes fell to his mouth. His to mine.
If one of us moved half an inch—
Then something inside snapped like a sail rope under storm.
I jerked back. Hard. “No.”
His jaw clenched. “Agreed.”
We stared at each other, breathing like we’d run miles. Disgust flooded me—not toward him, but toward myself for wanting anything from someone I swore to hate.
He stood abruptly, mask slamming back into place. Distance. Cold. Safe.
“This never happened,” he said.
“No,” I echoed. “It didn’t.”
He turned away first—thank gods—because if he’d lingered one second longer, I might have done something unforgivable.
When he reached the door, he paused without looking back.
“You saved my crew,” he murmured. “Tonight… you weren’t prey.”
My voice came out rough. “And tomorrow?”
His hand tightened on the doorframe. “Tomorrow you better fight like hell. Because wanting you dead and needing you alive are two warring tides, and I’m tired of drowning between them.”
He left.
The cabin door shut like a heartbeat stopping.
I pressed my fingers to my lips—shaking though we never touched—and swallowed hard.
I hated him. I hated that I didn’t.