POV: Beth
The storm finally spits us out.
One last wave lifts the little boat and throws it forward. The hull scrapes sand with a scream, we lurch sideways, and my body keeps going when the boat stops. I slam into the thwart, bite my tongue, and taste salt and blood.
“Move,” Alaric says.
I cannot. My fingers are welded to the oar. My arms shake with a numb ache that feels older than I am. Behind my eyes the sea still rears, black and endless.
He doesn’t wait. His arm clamps around my waist, hard as an iron band, and he hauls me over the side. I hit knee-deep water that is shockingly cold but blessedly still. My bare feet sink into gritty sand. The world tilts, tips, and then my knees simply give up.
I collapse onto the shore.
The sand is damp and coarse, gnawing at my skin. Broken shells jab my side. The rain has thinned to a sour drizzle.
Gray dawn smears over a narrow strip of beach cluttered with driftwood and the ribs of a wrecked ship rotting into the dunes. Beyond it, the island rises in black slopes and scrub, no chimney smoke, no lights, no people.
The kind of place the mapmakers forget.
I lie there, cheek pressed to cold sand, chest heaving. Every part of me throbs. The night rush feels far away, leaving only the weight of bone-deep exhaustion. Part of me wants to stay right here and let the tide take me.
Alaric stands above me, annoyingly upright.
He rolls his shoulders as if he’s just finished a pleasant walk, not a fight with death and a king’s dungeon. Wet chains hang loose at his wrists. His shirt clings to a body carved in muscle and scars and coils of black ink. His hair is plastered to his face, eyes dark under the messy strands.
“You lasted longer than I thought,” he says. “For a spoiled little bride.”
My laugh tears my throat. “Spoiled?”
“You cry when someone ruins your dress. You’ve never held a blade. You row like you’re asking the ocean for permission.” He tips his head, mouth crooking without warmth. “Soft hands. Soft heart. Soft spine. Spoiled.”
Anger cuts through the fog in my skull.
“You dragged me into that storm,” I snap, forcing myself up on my elbows. “You turned me into your distraction. I nearly drowned, and you call me spoiled?”
“You opened the lock,” he reminds me. “Desperation was the only gaoler I needed. And here we are, breathing, instead of rotting under the palace. You’re welcome.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Frequently.”
I push myself to my feet. The horizon wobbles, but fury steadies me. “You killed those guards. You broke chains like they were string. You laughed while they beat you. You are a demon!”
He snorts. “Not a demon. Just a pirate.”
“Pirate scum,” I fire back, the words tasting like every warning I ever heard. “Savage, filthy, criminal trash.”
“And yet,” he says mildly, “you’re alive because one piece of pirate trash decided not to leave you behind.”
The truth stings. My hands curl into fists.
“I should have left you in that cell,” I whisper.
He grins, quick and sharp. “You’d still be in yours. Waiting for your prince to remember your name.”
“Do not speak about him.” My voice cracks on the last word.
He starts to reach out when I sway, then drops his hand. “I’ll speak about whoever I please. This isn’t your church, princess. Out here nobody bows to your feelings.”
“I am not your princess.”
“No,” he says slowly. “You’re much more interesting.”
The way his gaze lingers makes my skin crawl. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly too aware of my wet shift and the wind cutting through it.
“I don’t care if you think I’m interesting,” I say. “I care that my father is still in their dungeon because of me.”
His eyes sharpen. “The governor. The one who fought them.”
“Yes.” My throat thickens. “They called him traitor. They talked about hanging him. He has done nothing but protect me all my life, and now he will die because I walked into that church.”
“Because of who sired you,” Alaric says. “Because of the mark on your wrist. Men burn for blood they never chose. Ask any bastard born to pirates.”
The mark on my wrist feels suddenly hotter, as if remembering.
“I have to get him back,” I say. The words come out low and hard. “Whatever it takes. I will not hide on some rock while they put a rope round his throat.”
“Better,” he says. “Anger looks better on you than sniveling.”
“You have no right to judge my tears.”
“I buried my own years ago,” he replies. “They only got in the way.”
“That explains why you are empty.”
He laughs, delighted. “There’s teeth. I knew they were in there somewhere.”
I hate that I give him amusement. I hate that his laughter feels like the only sound in the world that isn’t chains or waves or my father’s breath leaving him.
Somewhere beyond the rocks, thunder grumbles. The storm has moved on, but the sea still looks restless, rolling with a slow, watchful pulse.
“You never answered me,” I say. “Who are you, really?”
“I told you,” he says. “A pirate.”
“That is not a name.”
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing whether I deserve the truth. Then he steps closer, boots sinking in the wet sand, smelling of salt and smoke and iron.
“Alaric Stormborne,” he says. He gives a mocking half bow. “They call me the Black Tide. Once, I was king of every pirate worth the name.”
The air seems to thin.
“You’re lying,” I whisper.
“You saw the poster,” he says. “At the dock.”
The memory hits: charcoal lines, the smirk that matched his, the words WANTED DEAD beneath. Pirate king. The Black Tide. My stomach twists.
“That was you,” I breathe.
“A flattering likeness.” He shrugs. “The crown doesn’t enjoy competition. They prefer their oceans obedient.”
“Then why were you chained in their dungeon?” I manage.
“Because I vanished.” His jaw tightens. “Because men who wanted my throne moved faster than those who owed me loyalty. Because even kings drown when the tide turns against them. My fleets shattered. My crews scattered. The title is still mine. The sea just needs reminding.”
He says it so simply. No boast, no apology. Just intent.
“You want your throne back,” I say.
“I want my ships,” he corrects. “My flags on horizons. My enemies broken. The king’s navy bleeding. And you,” he adds, “want your father out of their noose and your pretty prince on his knees.”
I flinch at the image, even as dark satisfaction stirs.
“He ruined your golden little dream,” Alaric says softly. “He spat you out to save his spotless name. You owe him nothing but teeth.”
I think of Adrian’s cold eyes, the nobles recoiling, Father folding under guard fists. Something hardens under my ribs.
“I want him to pay,” I say.
“Good.” Alaric’s smile sharpens. “Then we have a road that runs the same way.”
“We are nothing alike,” I snap.
“We don’t have to be. We only have to walk in the same direction till our paths split.” He lifts a brow. “I want power back. You need power to walk into a fortress and walk out with your father alive and your prince’s blood on your hands instead of yours. You won’t get that with prayers and embroidery.”
“I will not become a pirate.”
“You already are in their eyes.” His gaze drops to my marked wrist. “The rest is just detail. The sea will decide what you become.”
“I am not—”
“Keep your story if it helps you sleep,” he cuts in. “But if you want vengeance, you need sharper teeth. And teeth,” he says, “are what I can teach.”
I hug myself tighter. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m saying our goals line up, for now,” he replies. “You help me gather what’s left of my people and move toward taking back the water. I help you turn from sobbing bride into something that can bite a prince. We use each other until we don’t.”
“And when you don’t need me?” I ask.
His grin is pure wolf. “Then you’ll be dead, or too dangerous to let go.”
The honesty should terrify me. It does. It also feels cleaner than any vow I heard in the cathedral.
Wind plucks my hair. Somewhere far away a bell will be tolling for morning prayers, not knowing a hanging is being prepared. My father is in a hole in the earth, trusting I am safe.
I lift my chin.
“I hate you,” I tell Alaric.
“You should.” He sounds amused. “Hate keeps people alert.”
“I will never belong to you,” I add. “Not as crew. Not as anything.”
“We’ll see.” He holds out his hand like we’re at a ball instead of a graveyard of ships. “Well, fugitive bride? Do we have a bargain?”
My hand shakes. I look at the scar on my palm, at the pirate brand on my wrist that ruined everything, at the empty horizon where home used to be.
Then I put my fingers in his. It feels less like taking a hand and more like slipping on a shackle.
“We have a bargain,” I say.
He squeezes once, sure and steady. “Good. The prince stole your future. Let’s see what you make of the wreck.”
As he lets go, dawn finally pulls itself over the edge of the world. Weak light spreads across the black rocks and the broken ship ribs. The sea rolls and breathes around the island, restless and huge.
Somewhere beneath its skin, something turns toward us, slow and ancient, like an eye opening.
The ocean has noticed me. And the ocean does not forget.