Page 8 of The Worst of Them

Copson handed the lantern to Greyson and turned for the hatch. “Greyson will free you. Don’t dawdle.”

And just like that, Captain Copson, the wickedest man in the Atlantic, a pillaging, murdering, torturing pirate, had saved them.

It wasn’t that Cecily didn’t want to be free. It was that she had never expected to be, and in lieu of any sort of agency, she’d chased peace as it was the only thing she could win for herself.

But now she suddenly had all the agency in the world—so much of it that she felt as though she were drowning as she was offered her first true choice in a year.

Life or death?

Though it might have been a simple matter, the suddenness of being able to choose something for herself shocked her into indecision. For so long, she’d courted desires for both death and life, her loyalty swaying to either depending on the moods and whims of her rotten heart and the weather of her thoughts.

The past was sunsets that became killing storms while the future was the all-consuming darkness before dawn—a dawn she’d had to wait a year for.

A dawn that came with pirates, but dawn nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Hester’s eyes began to shine with happiness. “We’re free,” she breathed. “I told you good things would happen.”

Cecily stared at the hatch. Was this good?

Before prison, the lines between good and bad seemed rather obvious. Now they were up for interpretation. Was life really worth it if she was forced to become a pillaging, murdering, torturing pirate herself? Would that be any better than what she’d already been through? She doubted it would make her any more or less worthy of anything, and it certainly wouldn’t bring peace.

Greyson moved down the rows of cells with a set of keys. One by one, he opened the doors and removed the inmates’ chains. Once freed, the women rushed for the steps. He wasn’t rough or hurried, and he said nothing at all.

When he reached Hester and Morgyn’s cell, he released Morgyn first, then knelt before Hester to unlock her shackles. The whole time, Hester grinned. When he met her gaze, he smiled back, and Cecily was horrified to see his smile was as awful as the butcher girl’s.

Then Hester rocked forward, took his face in her hands, and kissed him so thoroughly that Cecily could only stare in open-mouthed shock.

“Thank you,” Hester gasped when the two finally separated.

Greyson seemed at a loss for words. Staring dumbly—was he blushing?—he managed a nod. With a swish of her hips, Hester traipsed from the cell. At the steps, she glanced over her shoulder, winked at Greyson, and fled upward with a giggle, leaving Cecily as the last to be released.

Greyson stared after Hester. “She’s pretty.”

Cecily nearly laughed in disbelief. How in hell’s name was she not only not being tortured or killed, but this man—who was perhaps one of the scariest people she’d ever seen—had taken time to notice her friend was pretty?

What were these pirates? Was Copson a showman or charlatan?

Or maybe the infamous captain liked to scare his victims before he killed them, solely for his own entertainment. Cecily cherished a decent amount of hate in her heart, and she’d played with Morgyn’s mind only a few minutes ago merely to protect her sanity.

How much more hate did a wicked man like Copson harbor?

He’d kill her. Or Greyson would once he saw the sign on her door and figured she was more trouble than she was worth.

Her heart swayed, balancing scales between what she deserved, wanted, and expected.

“Hester won’t be hurt, will she?” Cecily asked, her shiv warm where it hid in her palm. When she had his attention again, she flicked her gaze to the sign on her door. She considered this as putting the decision in God’s hands—if Greyson killed her, then she deserved it. If he didn’t, she still got to choose.

He glanced at the sign, then looked at her with deep brown eyes that held no malice.

Perhaps he couldn’t read.

“Nah,” he said quietly. “I like that one. She’ll be fine.” Seeming unconcerned by the sign—should Cecily read it to him?—he unlocked her door. Before he reached for her wrists, she tossed her open shackles aside, letting them clatter loudly to the ground with the thought that maybe this would be cause for concern.

He seemed befuddled, but still not the least bit bothered. A twitchy, half-smile crept over his lips.

“Clever,” he said. Then he left her cell, walking quickly, she assumed, to catch up to her friend.

She turned her shiv over in her hand before concealing it along the inside of her longest finger. Maybe these were good pirates, if such a thing existed, and choosing to live among them for a time wouldn’t be so awful. Copson had assured safety on his ship, and though she didn’t fully believe him, there’d be weapons and money. If either of those failed her, she always had her wits—enough to keep her alive for long enough to get her somewhere better.