Page 46 of Freeing Hook

Astor is the rugged sort of beautiful. There’s not a single soft feature on his face. His tanned skin is slightly weathered, a byproduct of years at sea. His jaw is set, its sharp angle visible even under his dark beard—he keeps it trimmed so neatly. When my gaze lifts, I feel the sting of the needle that pierced the pointed tip of his ear, where his golden earring glints.

But his beauty isn’t what hurts. It’s the way he’s looking at me like I’m the one capable of wounding him.

“Where are my weaknesses?” he asks. I can’t help but notice the way his eyes trail my cheekbone, my nose, down to my lips.

His breathing quickens.

I try to angle my knee toward his groin, but he’s gripping me too close for me to get a good shot. My efforts result in a weak jab against his thigh, one he barely seems to notice.

“Look again,” he says.

I jump, thinking to slam my head into his, but he’s a head taller than me, so that’s bound to fail. When I stomp on his boots, they’re plated with steel.

“Not there,” he whispers.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing myself onto my toes. Astor’s craning his neck over me. The movement has his chin grazing my forehead, his mouth at the crown of my head.

When I tip my head back, his eyelids are heavy, obscuring the upper half of his beautiful green eyes. He looks drunk, and though he tightens his grip on my wrists, I know it’s only to steady himself. To hide the trembling that’s crept into his fingertips, his muscles.

“Where then?” I venture to ask, half breathless.

His fingers trail my wrist, up my palm, across my fingertips. But then his touch finds my ring finger, the cold metal of Peter’s emerald ring.

The tension between us snaps.

Astor skates his hand back down to my wrist. “My thumbs,” he says, voice now as serious as it is disinterested.

I blink. “What?”

“The weakness you’re looking for,” he explains, words coming out rushed. He nods toward his grip around my wrist. “It’s by itself, doesn’t have anything else to support it. If you shift all of your weight there, your attacker will have a difficult time holding on.”

I nod, grateful the strain of trying to get out of Astor’s grip must be masking the heat on my face. It’s more difficult than Astor makes it out to be and takes me shifting my feet and body weight, rolling my wrists at just the correct angle.

Eventually, he lets go, but I have a feeling it’s not because I overpowered him.

“Well done, D—Wendy,” he says, swallowing as he returns his attention to the map stretched across the table. “Now, if you don’t mind, I truly was busy when you arrived.”

There’s no harshness in his voice, but I’m mortified all the same.

I’m hardlyaware of my short journey back to my and Charlie’s cabin. So oblivious am I to my surroundings, so embarrassedby my encounter with the captain, that I don’t notice that I’m not alone in the room until Charlie’s voice rips me back to the present.

“Wendy? What are you doing?”

What am I doing? I glance down, almost surprised to find my fingers unraveling the pouch of faerie dust Peter gave to me the night I threw myself overboard. I’d hidden it under the bed, and it’s been a nightly battle to keep it there.

The soft, fine powder already coats my fingertips. I can almost taste its sweetness on the back of my tongue.

Charlie, standing over me from behind, swoops in and wrenches the pouch from my hands. “Go wash your hands off,” she says. When I don’t move, stunned just as much by the fact I hadn’t even realized what I was doing as I am by getting caught, she stuffs the pouch into her pocket. Then she drags me by the wrist over to the water basin. She doesn’t move until she deems my hands sufficiently scrubbed.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, still feeling as if I’d been sleepwalking.

Charlie sighs, tugging at the end of her braid. “You’ve had a rather awful few days.” She chews on her lip, hands on her hips, then flicks her head to the side. “Come on. Actually,” she says, “meet me on deck.”

Too ashamed of my lack of self-control to argue, I do as I’m told. On the way, my mind races, trying to account for the time between leaving the captain’s cabin and the moment I sifted the pouch of faerie dust out from underneath the bed.

By the time I reach the deck, Charlie isn’t far behind me. She comes ambling up next to me, pouch in hand, the loose hairs framing her face whipping around in the night’s cool breeze. It’s the type of cold that should feel invigorating. I just feel exposed.

She beckons me to follow her to a section of the deck railing out of sight from the night’s crew. Then she hands me the pouch. “Go on, then.”

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