POV: Beth
War wakes us at dawn.
No warning. Just the roar of cannon fire splitting morning calm apart, tearing dreams open like guts. I jolt awake, scrambling for boots I barely manage to pull on. The floor tilts—ship lurching under impact. Voices scream above deck. Metal clashes. Smoke burns my nose.
Navy. British Navy. They found us.
I burst onto deck, hair wild, shirt half-buttoned, and the world flips into chaos. Rows of red-coats on the opposing deck. Grappling hooks bite our rail. Muskets flash. Pirates roar back with blades and curses.
Alaric stands in the center of it—sword drawn, eyes alight in a fury I know too well. He looks carved from war itself. Deadly. Beautiful. Everything I should hate.
His voice cuts through battle like cannon fire. “Raise hell!”
Pirates surge. The gap between ships becomes a bridge of bodies. Kaine leaps between ropes like death on legs. Steel rings against steel. Blood sprays salt-wet across planks.
Heart pounding, I grab a blade—hand shaking, but trained enough to grip it right this time. A soldier charges me—face young, too young—swinging hard. I duck, chest screaming, counter with clumsy strike. He blocks. My arm aches. Fear claws my throat.
But I refuse to die.
He lunges again—I twist, blade finds his side—hot blood covers my hand. He collapses. I stare, shaking, alive in a way I never was as a governor’s daughter.
Another soldier grabs my arm from blind side—I cry out—before steel flashes across his throat, clean, elegant, practiced. Blood pours. His body falls at my feet.
Alaric stands there, chest rising like storm-tide, eyes dark as a void.
“For gods’ sake, princess. Watch your sides.”
No thanks. Just scolding.
I grit teeth. “I had him.”
His mouth twitches—not smile, not mockery. Something else. But battle yanks him away. He disappears into red-coats, cutting through them like sea through sand.
The fight lasts hours. Rope snaps. Sails burn. Cannons blast holes the size of graves through hull. Water floods lower deck. My arm splits open from a blade—deep, too deep—blood warm and frightening. I stagger. World blurs. A red-coat raises musket at my skull.
I think of Rowan. Of the wedding veil stained in dirt. Of dungeon stones.
I think of Kraken eyes watching oceans like gods.
I don’t think of death.
I dive aside—musket shot tears past my ear—scream slips out. I crawl behind barrels, clutching wound, shaking. Pain blurs into ringing silence. Men fall. Pirates fall. I hear Kaine shouting my name but too far.
The ship groans. Another cannon strike. Wood splinters.
Someone grabs me—familiar calloused grip—Alaric.
His voice, usually sharp, is hoarse. “You’re bleeding—move!”
He drags me behind mast as cannonball rips deck where I stood. Splinters rain like arrows. He doesn’t let go. His hand holds my waist too hard, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish again if he loosens fingers.
“I can stand,” I hiss, pushing weakly.
“Like hell you can.”
His eyes scan my wound—rage tightening jaw. Not at me. At anything that hurt me. At world. At fate.
A medic tries to reach us—shot dead. Alaric curses, rips strip of his shirt, presses it to my arm. I gasp. Pain burns like liquid fire.
“Breathe,” he orders.
“You… care too much,” I force out, dizzy.
He freezes. Just a second—just enough to see truth slip through.
Then he growls, “Shut up.”
He carries me below deck, ignoring protests, ignoring battle still raging. Lays me on cot in his quarters—his quarters—and kneels, hair wild, face smeared with soot and blood. Hands shake only when touching me.
Not when he killed.
Not when he commanded battle.
Only now.
My breath trembles. “Why—”
“Because if you die, I’ll kill you,” he snaps.
Ridiculous. Stupid. Raw. My eyes sting—not from pain. Something softer. Messier.
He tends wound, rough but gentle enough. Voice breaks once, barely.
“You should’ve stayed away from the rail.”
“And you should’ve let me fight.”
He looks like he wants to throw something—me, himself. “I won’t watch you die.”
“You don’t own me,” I whisper.
He leans close—too close—breath warm. “I know. That’s the problem.”
Silence swallows us. The battle sounds fade above deck—victory or slaughter, I don’t know. I only know he’s here, sitting on floor beside me long after wound is wrapped, long after I fall half-asleep.
When I wake hours later—he’s still there.
Back against wall. Eyes closed. Boots muddy. Sword across knees.
He slept in my room. On the floor. Guarding me like a secret.
I don’t wake him. Just watch.
Because tonight, whether I like it or not, I saw Alaric without armor. Without swagger. Without jokes.
And that is more dangerous than any sword.