Page 78 of The Worst of Them

“You,” Jack spat at Cecily, ignoring the officer entirely. “How clever you must think you are, sneaking away. How smart, thinking I would not find you.” He braced his hands on the table and leaned forward. “You forget yourself, and you forget who you deal with.”

Cecily considered him with an air of nonchalance, even as her insides sparked and began to ignite. Of course he’d chased her, and for what? To torture her? To get her back for whatever claim he thought he had over her?

He could go to hell.

“Oh, how I’d love to forget you,” she said. “You, my warden, my manager, who I cut when no one else could, who I have outsmarted, thwarted, and tortured, who I have humiliated when no one else dared. As though it were hard.”

Jack looked on the verge of snarling. Cecily rose from her seat, having already noted every weapon near her and how she might grab each of them when she and Jack fought. Because they would fight, and she would be done with him.

She held his gaze, returning his fury with her own as she said, “Jack Copson, I know exactly who you are. And I am not afraid of you.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Really? Running after all I said tonight was a lack of fear.”

“An abundance of hatred,” she told him.

“What would you have done, then? Fled to Spain to escape me?”

Beside her, Hein laughed devilishly. “I’d only just agreed to take her.”

Jack’s head whipped to the side, but Hein didn’t shrivel under his murderous glare. It didn’t last long before Jack faced her again, his shoulders set, his eyes dark.

“I asked you for one thing,” he said in a quiet, lethal hiss. “One damn thing. You agreed not to go into Tortuga alone.” His voice dropped to barely a breath. “And you scared me.”

In her mind, she heard Copson’s voice say, Unsuitable.

Jack’s answer. I know.

The tavern bloomed around her as awareness flooded in—every person, every candle, every chair and table coming into sharp focus along with a shroud of killing calm that slowed her heart and breath.

Jack was afraid for her. Like he cared so much. Like she had so much power that she could scare him—this man who terrified everyone and had nothing to fear.

Scare him, like she mattered. Make him worry, as though she were more than the aggravating girl he’d been forced to mind.

And yet he would not let her go. He would not leave her be. He would insult her then beg for friendship and chase her all the way here, to the heart of Tortuga into a den of Spanish soldiers who he would break and kill if only to speak with her.

But she was not good enough for him.

Hein had drawn his sword half way out of its scabbard and angled it toward her, so she didn’t have to reach far to grab it. As she pulled it free with a loud ring, he mumbled, “Peleen y follen ya.”

Jack fell back as Cecily moved around the table, his hand going to his own sword. “Going to fight me?” he taunted. “Fine, then. Let’s fight, since doing anything else with you is so damn impossible.”

The bartender shouted as Cecily swung for Jack with a ragged scream. Jack stepped out of the way, his sword sailing for her neck. She ducked, twirling around a table filled with patrons and reaching for her dagger as she rounded the other side and strode back toward Jack.

When he saw the blade she’d purchased three weeks ago, his expression twisted with scorn. “What an impressive feat that you’ve kept it hidden for so long.”

She swung her sword again, only for him to parry. A dagger had appeared in his hand too, and he swiped for her stomach while her arm was still raised. She blocked with her knife, unhooked her sword from his, and threw herself into a flurry of jabs and swipes he easily countered and returned until she spun away.

“I haven’t had the chance to use it yet,” she panted, flipping the dagger through the air and catching it by the hilt. “How delightful it’ll be to christen it with your blood.”

“Get out!” the bartender roared as patrons scrambled to the edges of the room, drinks in hand. Hein remained seated, idly spinning his empty glass.

Jack kicked a table out of his way, sending it careening into another to clear the floor in the middle of the tavern. He opened his arms wide in challenge. “Go ahead and try.”

She ran for him, thrusting her sword at his neck, his arm, his abdomen, jabbing with her elbow when she got close enough and swinging her dagger for his face. He blocked and ducked, turned and repaid her efforts in kind, slicing for her throat, her eyes, her heart.

A man approached, knife in hand, his eyes trailing Cecily. Jack shoved her away after another successful parry, turned his sword on the man, and growled, “She’s mine. Touch her, you die.”

Cecily said, “Perhaps you could use the help, Jack.”