Page 98 of Freeing Hook

Now I’m the one embarrassed. By the time I get to the rope, my hands are shaking badly enough that I can barely hold on. I can no longer tell if it’s from the aftermath of my interaction with the wraith earlier tonight, or if it’s the competing excitement and guilt over Astor and I using each other as distractions.

“Absolutely not!” yells the sailor behind us, noticing my trembling hands. “You’ll have to carry that one, mister, or she’s not coming!”

Anger rises in my throat. “I can climb just fine,” I bite back, though my warbling voice hardly sounds convincing, especially as it’s no match for even the sound of the gentle waves.

The sailor rolls his eyes. “The rope’s shaking like a sailor who ran out of brandy three days ago, and you’re not even on it yet. Captain, carry your plaything or leave her here, but I’m not risking one of the Nomad’s guests falling. He doesn’t like it when his visitors make for alligator food. At least, not before he meets with them.”

Tears sting at my eyes, making me feel petulant. It shouldn’t matter whether I can prove that I can climb a stupid rope or not, but…

“You feel good at this—climbing,” says the captain, staring at me intently.

A lump forms in my throat as I nod.

“Is it enough for you that you and I both know that you’re perfectly capable of doing this on your own?” he asks.

I glance back at the sailor, holding his hands at his hips impatiently. “I suppose you can’t just throttle him, can you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “If that’s what you ask of me, Darling. Though, I’ll warn you, I imagine it would make for a most unpleasant remainder of our trip.”

Already feeling my spirits lifted by the reassurance the captain believes in me, I nod. “Alright. You can carry me then.But just know that I’m always going to assume you paid that man to be ornery just to get the chance to hold me.”

The captain stares at me awhile, a softness glinting in his eyes. “Consider me caught.”

I let out a surprised chuckle, but before I can respond, he lifts me into his arms. Without thinking, I find my legs wrapping around his torso as he stares up at me, his gaze dancing across my face, his hands secure at my waist.

“I’m pretty sure this is the wrong way,” I say.

“I didn’t notice,” he says, quickly shifting me to his back. We scale the rope like that, me clinging to him for life itself.

When the unpleasantservant leads us through the winding corridors in the hull of the massive ship to a back room filled with a dazzling array of collectibles, I have to school my expression at the man who stands from the desk and introduces himself.

The Nomad is young. At least, he looks young, about my age. He has sandy hair, a sturdy yet sleek build, pointed ears, and cunning sapphire eyes that scan over me and the captain quickly, his gaze lingering on the captain’s hand and my cheek. I watch him try to fit the two Marks together, the brief glimpse of confusion when he realizes they don’t match.

“What’s this?” he asks. “Did the Fates bring me fates-crossed lovers? Those three do possess a cruel sense of humor.”

A shiver prances across the bulges of my spine as I search his boyish face for any signs of a lie.

“You’re wondering if the stories about me are true,” the Nomad says, folding his hands together as he props his elbows on the scattered pieces of parchment that lie strewn across his desk.

“Are they?” I ask, remembering what Vale told us. That the Nomad once crossed into the realm of the dead.

The Nomad examines me, then offers me a casual smirk as he leans back in his chair. “You can never count on all of the stories being true.” He cranes his neck back and forth between the captain and me. “I assume you want those Mating Marks removed.”

My heart gives a little lurch. It feels suspiciously like hope, but the captain beats me to answering. “Just the one,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m afraid my companion here is partial to hers.”

A pebble lodges itself in my chest.

“Interesting,” says the Nomad, flicking his head in a gesture for us to move closer. We do, and when we reach the desk, Astor splays his hand across the desk for the Nomad to examine. The blond fae pulls a magnifying glass out of his desk and peers through it at the golden tendrils spread across the back of Astor’s hand. When he reaches the dead flesh and purple scars that stain Astor’s forearm, he clucks and whispers, “Sloppy.”

When I turn to Astor with a questioning brow, he doesn’t look at me, so I prop my hands on the desk, fingers tented. I’m so nervous, I’m shaking, and leaning on the desk helps support my weight.

“What makes you think I can help with this?” the Nomad asks, dropping Astor’s hand and leaning back in his chair once again, arms folded over his chest. When Astor’s hand falls back on the desk, his pinkie brushes mine, sending a wave of heat up my arm, piercing my heart.

I suck in a quiet breath. It’s the slightest touch. So slight, I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one to notice. Astor doesn’t move. And I don’t pull away.

“You’re friends with the Fates, aren’t you?” I say, impatience creeping up my throat and into my voice.

Astor must interpret my shaking voice as a symptom of fear, because he hooks his pinkie around mine. My body stops breathing on its own.

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