Page 76 of The Worst of Them

Every. Bloody. Piece.

She wanted to kill him. Genuinely, without remorse, she wanted to slit his gorgeous throat. After all she’d struggled with being a murderer, she was surprised how little she cared when it came to Jack.

“I’m trying, Cecily,” he said, his expression serious. “I’m trying to make it less difficult for both of us.” Then he turned and jogged to the waves, leaving her alone on the beach.

She surveyed the weapons beside her. Upon reconsideration, she was sure Copson had been bluffing to scare her into compliance, and Hester would be fine with Greyson and Jack to protect her. And if Jack came after Cecily, she would deal with him then.

She made her decision then.

With one last glance toward the waves, Cecily pushed to her feet and strode into the haunted forest.

And then she ran.

18

KILLING COPSON

Cecily sprinted down the path, her spine tingling as the forest ghosts watched with rapt attention.

What terrible luck if they decided to appear now.

She tore past the inn and down the deserted road, her steps pounding as loud as her pulse and drowning out any sound of pursuit. She didn’t look back to see if anyone followed as she turned for the wickedest part of the city, plunging into the heart of the sinful streets like a vengeful angel.

Men called and women leered as she passed, despite the knife flashing in her hand, but she paid them no mind, searching every sign and door frame. Sweat dripped down her back—not from the heat or humidity, but from knowing she would be hunted.

The streets of Tortuga did not scare her tonight, but only because Jack Copson was worse than any drunkard or clumsy criminal in this city.

At best, she would have hours before he came for her. At worst, it would be minutes.

Cecily could make do with minutes.

Then—there. In the heart of the city was a tavern, tall and filled with windows spilling light over the surrounding buildings. She ran for the door, whispering a fierce prayer that quickly turned to thanks for the slew of Spanish sailors she found inside.

By the far wall, Hector Hein sat at a table with a glass of something dark, a king surrounded by his court. With a deep breath that did little to slow her racing heart, Cecily approached his table. She had nearly reached him when he looked up.

Surprise lit his face through the dim haze of candles and lanterns, followed by an easy, feline smile.

He settled back in his seat. “My lovely Cecily. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She stopped at his table, blood still thundering in her ears. His crew was used to seeing her, so they didn’t pause their conversations, filling the tavern with noise even as their eyes lingered.

“Take me to Spain,” she said, panting.

Hein threw one arm over the back of his half-empty bench seat. Casting a furtive glance behind her and seeing none of her friends, he reached for his glass then gestured to the spot beside him. “Sit with me.”

She slid onto the wooden bench, keeping the tavern entrance in view. The seconds ticked by, each one like a death knell, as though Jack’s shadow had fallen over everything and would haunt her until the moment he found her.

“Is everything alright?” Hein asked, maintaining his smile.

“I want to go to Spain with you.” She tried to say it lightly, but she still hadn’t recovered her breath, her words coming with an air of desperation.

He lifted his drink to his lips and said, “Why?” before taking a sip.

“You know why.”

“What about your friend? Your captain threatened her, didn’t he?”

She glared at the door. “Make it seem like you took me. Copson won’t punish her if he has no reason to believe I abandoned.”