Page 12 of Losing Wendy

“He had a generous offer,” I say, because I can’t bear to admit the truth—that my dulled instincts had me freezing underneath the lord’s predatory touch. “One I would have been foolish not to consider.”

Maybe it’s because I’m so used to conversing with noblemen that I’m not at all prepared for his response. “You’re not a talented liar, are you?”

I grit my teeth, averting my gaze from the captain’s taunting stare. “Are you blaming me for a cruel man’s unwanted advances when I myself am in a…precarious position?”

I shouldn’t have let the truth tucked between those vague words slip, but if Credence is right, the captain is too cunning not to errantly suspect an unwanted pregnancy.

The captain snorts. “We all hold dreams of a utopian sort of world where those in power refuse to oppress those with less of it. But Darling, that is not the realm in which you and I reside. Forgive me if I’m not one to placate the mentality that just because this world is a cruel and unjust place, we should take it lying down while we wait for others to change.”

“There’s no shame in meekness, Captain.”

His piercing green eyes linger on my mask for a moment. “Noneat all. But to possess cowardice and call it meekness is a different sort of deception entirely.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “You despise me so thoroughly, yet we’ve only just met.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t give me the dignity of averting his eyes when he responds, “That’s because I despise weak things. Especially those for whom it is within their power to be strong. You, Darling, are the type of girl who allows life to happen to you. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Why you’re gambling your future away on a night of frivolity in the hopes of finding a husband. Surely you recognize what a frail reprieve that would be from the fate you so wish to escape.”

My words hang in my throat. How does he know…?

“Tell me, have you ever considered a life outside of the little shadow box in which you’ve been content to wither away?”

“Everything I’ve ever done has been in service of preserving my future.”

“And what a life you’ve squandered in the meantime.”

He watches me, his gaze so sharp I feel as though it might penetrate my mask. Spiced scents of teakwood and pipe smoke waft off of him, permeating my senses until I’m dizzy. I search my chest for rattling anger, but find none.

I should be incensed; I know this. And yet I’m familiar enough with myself to know that if I were to be given another night in this realm, I would retire to bed numb, calm. Then, as I replayed the events of the evening, the harsh words this man dared to speak to me would kindle my anger, boiling over until sleep fled me. Until rage consumed me.

But I won’t get another night, so I suppose I’ll never taste the hatred I should feel toward this man.

So we dance, and I say nothing. Because what’s the point of conversation when one’s dance partner sees through them?

The music continues lazily, and I glance toward his left hand, his fingers interlocked with mine. Beautiful golden tendrils curl around his fingertips, tracing his knuckles and swarming the back of hishand before converging around his wrist. His crimson sleeves have slipped just enough that I can follow their path, except there’s no more path to follow. Where a normal Mating Mark might curtail into a natural end, there are dreadful, inky gashes on his wrists that slice his golden tendrils in half.

Below the gashes, the Mark has grayed like a day-old corpse that’s long lost its warmth.

“Oh.” The word escapes my lips before I can reel it in.

“Oh, indeed,” he responds, following my gaze.

“Did you find her before…” My words trail off as my eyes trace the severed mark, like flesh dangling from a three-day-old wound.

“Which answer do you find more tragically romantic?” he asks, his voice calcifying.

I snap my attention back to him, his hard lines and sharp edges suddenly softening in my perception, despite the way his jaw is set. As I return my consideration to his hand, I notice the gentle circlet of paler skin, untouched by the sun, curving around his ring finger—a wedding ring he must still wear and have taken off for the ball.

Mating Marks might be rare, but the legends of them are told around the hearth of every home in Estelle. I suppose we have a tendency to find them romantic—at least, people who aren’t born with them do.

Of course, the stories always end the same way. With one of the Mates meeting a terrible end, leaving the Mating Mark of the other severed in a gruesome display of grief. An interwoven life picked apart like meat from the bone amongst a horde of scavenging birds.

“You’re lucky to have found her,” I find myself saying. It’s insensitive, the sort of thing I’d never typically say. But something about the captain tells me he’s the type to appreciate someone who speaks their mind rather than wrapping their opinion in lies to make it more palatable.

The captain laughs, but it’s the wry sort with no smile to lift its edges. “Luck? Is that what you’d call it? Do you think it’s luck to have one’s soul ripped in half, like a sail down the seam?”

“Better to lose love than die searching for it,” I say, though more to myself than to the strange captain holding me in his sturdy arms.

“Best of all to find love and be strong enough to protect it,” he responds, his hand tensing at my waist.

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