Chapter 7: The Reckoning Tide
The belt came free with a sharp hiss of leather. Isolde scrambled backwards on the bed until her shoulders struck the carved headboard, the silk of her borrowed nightdress—her father’s admiral’s idea of proper attire—twisting around her legs. The world outside the cabin windows was a chaos of orange flashes and distant, muffled booms, but in here, the only violence was the quiet intent in Rhys’s eyes.
He didn’t advance. He simply stood there, the belt dangling from his fist, his breathing still ragged from the fight on deck. A fresh cut gleamed high on his cheekbone. He smelled of salt, smoke, and sweat.
“Predatory intent” was what the synopsis had said. But his gaze held something more fractured, a fury that was terrifyingly personal.
“You left,” he said, the words flat.
“You put me in a boat!” The retort was automatic, born of sheer panic.
“And you sailed home without a backward glance. You ate from their silver, slept in their clean sheets, and forgot the taste of the sea.” He took one step forward, and the cabin seemed to shrink. “Forgot the taste of me.”
“I forgot nothing.” The admission tore from her, harsh and true. The lavish meals in the admiral’s cabin had tasted of ash. The silk sheets felt alien. Every creak of the frigate’s timbers had been wrong, a hollow echo of the Raven’s lively groan. She hated him for it. “You are a thief and a villain.”
“And you,” he said, closing the final distance, “are a liar.” He moved with a sudden, brutal grace. Before she could twist away, he caught her ankle. His grip was iron. “You belong to me. You said it with your mouth on mine.”
“I said nothing!”
“Your body said it.” In one swift motion, he looped the belt around her ankle, not tight enough to hurt, but with a firm, undeniable finality. The cool leather was a brand. He secured the buckle with a deliberate click. The other end remained in his hand. “This isn’t a ransom. That chance is gone. This is a reckoning.”
Tears of fury blurred her vision. She kicked out with her free leg, her heel connecting with his ribs. He grunted, but his expression didn’t change. If anything, it hardened, the blue of his eyes darkening like a storm-churned sea.
“Good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’d have been disappointed if you’d just laid down.”
He yanked on the belt, not hard, but enough to pull her several inches down the bed. She clutched at the covers, a raw sound of protest escaping her throat. He leaned over, bracing one hand on the headboard beside her, caging her in. His face was inches from hers.
“Your father’s admiral traded you for three barrels of fresh water and safe passage for his wounded. He didn’t even haggle.” Rhys’s voice was low, venomous. “You were a problem to be disposed of. To them. To me, you are the only problem worth having.”
The truth of it was a sharper wound than any cut. She had seen the admiral’s relieved face, the quick calculation in his eyes as the pirate boats emerged from the cove. The fleet’s safety, the mission’s success—they outweighed one baroness. She had been a commodity, returned to the ledger.
“So what is this?” she spat, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Punishment? For making you run?”
“Yes.” His free hand came up, but not to strike her. His calloused thumb brushed the tear-track from her cheek with a roughness that was almost tender. “For making me feel something other than the wind and the next prize. For haunting my every waking thought since that damned boat.”
He kissed her.
It was nothing like the first kiss. That had been exploration, provocation. This was conquest, and confession, and a raw, claiming anger. She fought it, her hands pushing against his chest, but he was immovable. The taste of him—gunpowder and the faint, metallic tang of blood—was familiar now, a dark anchor in her upended world. Her struggle weakened, not from surrender, but from a terrifying, dawning understanding.
She had missed this. The sheer, vital aliveness of him.
He felt the change, the slight yielding in her frame. He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her lips. His gaze searched her face, looking for the lie, finding only a confused, angry anguish that mirrored his own.
“Finn thinks I’m mad,” he said, his voice gravel-rough. “He’s right.”
“Then let me go,” she whispered, but the plea had no force.
“I can’t.” The words seemed to cost him. He released the belt, letting it fall slack against the bedcover. He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his dark, tangled hair. The predatory tension bled out of him, replaced by a profound exhaustion. “The world you came from doesn’t want you back, Isolde. Not the real you. They want the ornament. The bargaining chip. I…” He stopped, shaking his head. “I see the fire. And I want it for myself.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant shouts of men securing the ship, and the gentle lap of water against the hull. They were moving. Sailing away from the cove, from the frigates, from her old life.
Isolde stared at the leather loop around her ankle. A tether. A mark of ownership. Yet, his words circled in her mind: You were a problem to be disposed of.
She slowly, deliberately, reached down. Her fingers found the cold brass of the buckle. She didn’t look at him as she pressed the release. The strap fell away.
Rhys went very still, watching her.
She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The defiance was still there, a cold core inside her. But it was changing shape.
“If I stay,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet cabin, “it will not be because of a belt. Or a threat. Or your… your mad obsession.” She met his eyes, and the green in hers was like deep, forest ice. “It will be on my terms. You will treat me as… as crew. Not as chattel.”
A slow, disbelieving smile touched his cracked lips. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a man who’d just been handed a puzzle more dangerous than any sword fight. “Crew? You can’t swab a deck, Baroness.”
“I can learn. I can navigate. I read charts and speak four languages. I am not useless.” She unfolded herself, rising to her knees on the mattress so she was level with him. “Or I am a prisoner. And I will make every single day of your life a hell until you tire of me and throw me to the sharks. Choose.”
He studied her for a long moment. The ship creaked around them, a living thing carrying them into the unknown. Finally, he reached out and picked up the discarded belt. He coiled it slowly, deliberately, and tossed it onto a chair in the corner.
“Terms,” he said, as if testing the word. He stood, offering her his hand. Not to pull her up, but as a pact. “Welcome to the Raven, Isolde. You’ll start at dawn. Finn will put you to work. You’ll hate every second of it.”
She looked at his hand, scarred and strong. Then she placed hers in it. His fingers closed, warm and firm.
“I already do,” she said.
But she didn’t let go.