Page 84 of The Worst of Them

Cecily tried to sleep, but it took some time for the butterflies to stop spiraling through her middle. When she went to her little home, the sky was dark, the windows were lit with warm light, and she sank into her luxurious bed.

She didn’t spend any time thinking about whether Jack might belong in her little home. For now, she had time, and she wouldn’t run from him. She would choose to be a glutton for this new thing that made her so overwhelmingly, unexpectedly happy and puzzle out the rest of her future later.

When she did finally manage to rest, however, it was to thoughts of what such a future might be like.

To her surprise, she didn’t hate it in the least.

When Cecily woke early the next morning, her first inclination was to go next door.

She rose from bed, dressed in a clean shirt and pair of trousers, freshened her face and breath, and bound her hair into its usual crown. As she did, certain ideas began to creep around the edges of her thoughts, suggesting she might be embarrassed for how she’d behaved the night before—the tears and honesty about who and what she was.

Jack hadn’t minded last night, but what if that had changed, and a broken, grieving girl was more than he wanted to deal with?

I want every part of you, even if it hurts… I will adore you so long as you are mine.

Jack didn’t often change his mind. Not that she knew of, anyway.

She slipped out of her room and padded to his room. She knocked, then waited. Then knocked again.

He’d slammed his door every morning these past weeks, and since she hadn’t heard it today, she assumed he was inside. So she jumped when she heard his voice from the end of the hall.

“You’re up early.” He strode toward her from the top of the stairs, a bag slung over his shoulder. “Eager to see me?”

He looked at her differently this morning. He’d always watched her, she knew, but from far off and with brief glances she barely caught. But now he wasn’t so reserved about it. He didn’t just look—he beheld, like he was trying to memorize every freckle, every feature. Like he saw more than her skin and smile.

What a fool she’d been to silence him and attempt to run. And what a gentleman he was to chase her.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, holding his gaze and blushing so deeply that her ears burned. “You’re up rather early as well.”

“I had somewhere to be.” He unlocked his door and stepped inside, grabbing her hand as he passed. He pulled her with him, snapped the door shut, and hauled her close for a kiss.

Heart in her throat, she smiled against his lips and let her hands settle on his waist, pleased to know nothing had, in fact, changed over the past few hours.

Against the corner of her mouth, he whispered, “Good morning.”

Her fingers slowly trailed up his chest and lingered over his heart. “Where were you?”

“Keeping a promise.”

She leaned back. “Alone in Tortuga?”

“Only while the devils sleep off their nightly stupors.” With an impish smile, he added, “I didn’t go far.”

“Do Copsons abide by different rules in pirate cities?” she asked, remembering the way Hein had called off his men with Jack’s name alone.

“Not always, though we certainly rank among the devils.” He drew away, slipping the strap of his bag over his head to set it on the bed. “I brought you a gift.”

“You don’t have to give me anything.” She came to stand in the middle of the room as he rummaged through the satchel. Everything in here looked the same as next door, though he had more personal effects scattered about—a shirt on the floor, clothes piled in a half-open drawer, a razor and a small mirror by the basin.

“I wanted to.” He turned and held out a small dagger with a smooth, white handle. It was no longer than her hand from the base of her palm to the tip of her middle finger.

She reached for the knife and balanced it in her fingers, her heart swelling and settling like a contented little snake in a warm nest.

A laugh burst from her. “It’s bone.”

“Only the handle. The blade is steel, which I thought was more sophisticated.” His indulgent grin reminded her of her crude little shiv and how angry she had been when he’d thrown it overboard.

The knife was incredibly light, the bone smooth and polished. Slipping the blade from the sheath, she set her thumb lightly against the sharp edge, letting it catch on the ridges of her fingerprint.