Page 81 of Scourge of the Shores
But then he whispered, “I just wanted ye to have peace, Danna.”
Her breath stilled. The words struck like a blade, slipping between her ribs. She let out a shaky breath—rage, pain, exhaustion all tangled together.
Ma stirred, but his warm embrace on her ankle never moved. Lucas had always been there for her, just as her father would have been. Their gazes locked, and he remained silent.
“Ye were right,” she finally admitted, the words scraped the back of her throat. “Ye’ve always been right.” A whisper. Her tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
For a moment, Lucas just looked at her. He studied her broken face with eyes shining with unshed tears.
With a deep breath, Lucas patted her ankle and drew back the blanket. He lay beside her, cradled her in his arms, and whispered, “Wish I weren’t. I hate bein’ right. I told ye at the graves that ye’d fight this alone, but I lied, Danna. I’m here. I’ll be here. I’ll help share this hurt as much as I can.”
Danna sniffled and released a shaky breath at how her ache pained him, too.
Lucas kissed her cheek and rubbed her injured arm with the care only a father could give.
“An enchanter told me before ye were born that a worthy man would come on the sea and wed ye,” he murmured. “Maybe Robert ain’t him. Yer heartache’ll pass in time. But if it was . . . then maybe the sea ain’t done with him yet.”
Her hands slid to the collar of his shirt as she gripped the fabric. “I hope ye’re right at least once more,” she whispered.
But doubts lingered.
If Robert wasn’t the man in the prophecy, why did it feel like she’d lost a piece of her soul—something the sea had no right to take—something she was never meant to live without?
And if he was, how long would she have to wait? How much hope did she have left?
CHAPTER 22
The Eastern Campaign
The Drunken Sailor, the sole tavern on Rogue’s Isle, brimmed with pirates and their love of rum. Robert’s father had claimed a table in the corner, where Robert sat with the Pirate Kings. A chair was empty for Damien, lost in the battle with Cain. They each cradled a rum, but none dared drink too much. Somber expressions stared back at Robert until he broke the silence at their table.
“Damien was a good man, a true captain, an excellent Pirate King. We owe him our lives from our battle with the sea dragon.”
Hagen raised his mug. “It could have been any one of us. To Damien!”
“To Damien,” they returned in unison and sipped in his honor.
The rest of the tavern’s patrons turned their attention to the table hosting pirate royalty. “To the Pirate King Damien,” they repeated.
Robert nodded, acknowledging the patrons, his eyes dark and grim. He stood and addressed the whole tavern. His voice boomed across the way; it was time to tell the tale. “We’ll sing his name in the shanties and tell stories of how the Pirate Kings defeated a sea demon. Damien’s dance with Tophet won’t be in vain."
Robert clenched his fist. "The spike from the sea dragon’s mane is proof of victory but also a grim reminder of the price paid in blood.”
The patrons piped up. “The spike on Storm Rider’s mast is that of a sea dragon’s mane?” Their rum-red eyes grew wide.
“Aye, as real as you and me,” Robert said with a nod.
Jaws dropped, and word spread that night that Captain Jaymes, the Pirate King of the North Sea, had defeated a sea dragon with the proof bolted to his ship. Whispers flooded Rogue’s Isle: what prophecy would the relic bring? Or was it an old sea tale, a myth, a prophecy never to be?
As night fell, the crews gathered around a blazing fire on Rogue’s Isle, their voices rising in mournful song.
“Oh, gather 'round ye sailors bold, and hear this tale we sing,
Of the sea dragon Cain and “The Ruthless” Jaymes, Pirate King,
With cannon fire and blades in hand, fought ‘neath a stormy sky,
Victory was won that day, when Cain the beast did die.”
