“How the hells did I mess this all up?” Deskin muttered, grabbing another sword from the pile. “One last job. I had one last job and now look what I’ve done!”

  He rubbed at a splatter of blood lining the blade’s edge with a personal fury. His skin cried in pain, the raw muscle rubbing against the bandages covering the entirety of his burned back and wrapping around to the front. It was hot, and he’d taken off his shirt to feel the air on his unburned skin. But hells, every movement drove another stab of pain through him.

  “Good,” he hissed. “I deserve it. I deserve this hurt. I had one damn job, and I ruined it!” Deskin scratched off the red stain and flipped to the other side. Below deck, the light was dim. Beams of morning sunlight peered through the planks around him, reflecting off the pile of blades he’d been ‘assigned’ to clean.

  “Forced to clean, more like,” Deskin grumbled. Though it could be worse. Gale was on Eayrne’s shit list and forced to swab the deck until they docked. Deskin watched a bead of sweat fall from his exposed chest and onto the iron blade. “Could always be worse.”

  “Hey, lostman!” A voice sneered.

  “Oh, look, it’s worse.” Deskin fought the urge to look up but saw a cluster of feet gather at the edge of his vision.

  “Lostman! I’m talking to you!” The voice called again.

  Deskin flicked the last of the blood from the blade and looked up. “What’s the issue, Roje?”

  A halfling with a broken nose and a sour set of teeth grinned up at him. “No issue, lostman. Just wanted to make sure you knew your place was all.” A few others from the crew chuckled.

  “How could I forget?” Deskin drawled. “I have such heights to fall from. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

  The crew chuckled again, Roje’s face going red with rage. “You watch your mouth! I’ll cut you open right here, and no one will even blink! You hear me?”

  “No, I don’t think they would mind much.” Deskin dragged the whetstone across the blade. “I ain’t nothing to them. You ain’t nothing to me. Don’t need to take it personally. I know you halflings have very big feelings.”

  The crew laughed again, their attention turning away from Deskin and onto Roje’s gnashing teeth. “You keep this up, lostman, and you’ll lose hells more than just your name!” He grabbed the dagger in his belt.

  Deskin ran the stone across the edge with a long ring echoing out. “Mind your manners, Roje. I may be a lostman now. But I won’t be for long. Hangman will see to that.”

  “We’ll see,” Roje sneered. “Hangman won’t be so pleased to hear you’re soft on our prize.”

  Deskin froze. “Hells do you mean, ‘Soft’?”

  “Your girl. That priestess, though I bet she ain’t really one,” Roje laughed darkly. “Pure as the driven snow, my ass. Once Eayrne’s through with her, I’ll have my turn.”

  Deskin’s jaw tightened. “She ain’t my girl. Ain’t my problem.”

  “You say that now. but look who’s all wrapped up in her sheets.” Roje pointed to Deskin’s bandages. “Bet she smells real nice, don’t she? I’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry.”

  Deskin’s fingers curled around the blade hilt. “I ain’t gone soft on nothing. You’d better remember that.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Roje laughed and stomped away. “Now be a good lostman and clean my shit!”

  As Roje and his band left for the deck, Deskin released the sword. “Bastards. She’s nothing special. Just some girl.”

  He sharpened the blade again, trying to drive out the smell of her skin from his mind. He did it again, pushing away the memory of her touch.

  Again, to forget the heat of her body next to his.

  Again, because he didn’t care that he’d awoken next to her.

  Again, it didn't matter that he’d moved so softly to not disturb her.

  Again, as he’d lain her down, covered her in a blanket, and snuck out.

  Again, because it was nothing when she rose to stare at him, sleep clouding her eyes, looking as beautiful as when he’d first seen her.

  “Hells!” Deskin barked as the blade nicked his thumb. He tossed it aside, wiping away the blood. “It doesn't matter. She doesn’t matter. None of this does.”

  He threw the whetting stone against the wall. “Focus. Just one last job,” he assured himself. “No distractions, no sidetracking, no changes. One last job.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  With half the blades polished and a growing pang in his stomach, Deskin grabbed his shirt and rose to the deck. Exposed to the late dawn and the fresh air, he could almost believe everything would be fine. He crossed to Cook’s stove, grabbing a bowl and taking a seat away from the crew. He let the stew cool in his hands, the path forward running through his mind.

  I still took care of Ruben. I still handled Mr. Trinket and the ring. It may have gone south, but what job doesn’t? Deskin chewed his cheek. The Hangman will understand. I will still deliver the package. The old man and the girl are just...bonuses. I’ll still get my pay. I’ll still clear my debt. Then I’ll be free. I can go home.

  Deskin sipped the stew nervously. It just didn’t feel right. He ran the math over in his head again and again. Sure, there had to be an answer. But there was something else bothering him. He would figure it out. He had to push forward.

  Keep moving forward. One step at a time. That’s all that matters.

  Deskin was halfway to convincing himself he’d be just fine when she appeared on deck. For a moment, his heart stopped. All the wind froze. The sun shone only to lighten her face.

  A brown jacket covered her white temple robes. Her silver hair was loose and falling to her shoulders. Deskin could not move. As she turned to see him staring, he was frozen. Her violet eyes, all the brighter in the daylight, bore into him. It was all he could do not to choke and completely embarrass himself.

  For a passing moment, some emotion flicked across her face. Want? Desire? Even just curiosity? Deskin could only hope. In the next second, it was gone, and she was across the deck taking a bowl from Cook.

  Deskin leaned back in a vain attempt to regain his dignity, even as he read their lips as while they spoke.

  “Verna?” Lapat said.

  “What? Yes?” She stuttered and turned back to him.

  Deskin saw Lapat look between her and him; his eyebrow raised in disapproval. “Do you want the sausage and peppers? I’m not one for spice.” He rubbed his stomach.

  “Yes, I mean, I think so.” She looked to Cook, who was staring at Lapat nervously.

  The big gray man towered above her with his thick black hair tied back in a bun. Sweat and grease covered his white apron adorned with Kiss the Cook. “Magic man have what he wants. You two Missy. No trouble. No magics needed.” He glanced uncomfortably at Lapat once more before turning to Verna.

  She peered into the pans, spiced sausages cooked sweet, and peppers mixed into bowlfuls. “How spicy is it, exactly?” Verna asked hesitantly.

  “Exactly?” Cook scratched his head, thick gray arms flexing in the sun. “No exact. Feel in heart. In…how say? Zheludok.” He patted his belly happily.

  “Little bird!”

  Eayrne’s voice sent shivers down Deskin’s neck. He whirled to watch the skeletal creep carefully.

  Eayrne sauntered up to her, leaning in to examine her plate. “Are you eating enough? I am worried about you. You are already such a…frail, little bird.” He turned his sick smile on her.

  “She is just fine,” Lapat grumbled. “Come on, Verna. Let’s go eat somewhere else.”

  Eayrne snapped to him like a snake. “Did I tell you to speak?”

  Beirt giggled behind him, “Shush, turtle man, shush while the turtle still can.”

  Lapat grimaced but closed his mouth.

  “I thank you for your attention to my wellness, sir.” Verna cleared her throat. “However, I am more than confident that this food will sustain me. Thank you.” She tried to step past him, but Eayrne wrapped his arms around her, hands pinning her between the table and his skeletal frame.

  Deskin’s blood went cold. He dropped his bowl to the deck.

  Eayrne leaned in close to her. “I am just so…worried about you. I’d hate for something to happen.” His thin fingers brushed her hair. “Perhaps I should keep a closer eye on you?”

  Verna’s eyes were wide, her lips trembling to form a response.

  “Eayrne!” Desk barked suddenly, already halfway across the deck. What am I doing?

  Earyne turned his head slowly. “Yes, Deskin?”

  Verna peered past Earyne’s thin figure, her panicked gaze on Deskin.

  “Leave the girl alone,” Deskin growled coldly. What the hells, am I doing?

  Eayrne breathed in; his breath thick against Verna’s scalp. “And why is that, little demon? Last, I recall, I was still in charge of this job. And you were still the one who fucked everything up in the first place.”

  Anger flashed across Deskin’s face. His jaw ticked, and for a moment, he could think of nothing better than smashing Earyne to the ground. But all eyes were on him. For all his passion, he was rarely stupid. Deskin swallowed the rage, forcing a cocky smirk to paint his face. “I’d just hate for you to be disappointed, is all.”

  “Disappointed?”

  Deskin stepped past Beirt, his hands tucked behind his back, as casual as possible. “You know all the priestesses are celibate, right? And not by choice.”

  Eayrne pulled back, his pale eyes groping Verna’s body and settling on her legs.

  “Locked up tight, the church keeps them.” Deskin stepped even closer. “Celibacy by lock and key.”

  Verna’s mouth dropped. Shock or disgust rolled off her gaze.

  Eayrne scowled, “And how do you know this?”

  Deskin ignored her, instead nudging Earyne like they were in on the same joke. “By experience. A bad experience to say the least.”

  “That might have been your experience,” Eayrne cackled, letting his hands fall free from the table. “But I can think of a few other things for her and me.”

  Deskin quickly swung in front of him, putting his back to Verna as if she wasn’t even there. He was inches from Earyne. The stink of his rotten scent churned Deskin’s gut. “You could, captain. But why do anything halfway? Might as well get her back to the Hangman and let his best lock picks crack her. I’m sure he’d reward you well for bringing the ring and the girl to him.”

  Deskin could see the greed shine in Eayrne’s pale eyes. A greed that battled a lust that made him sick.

  “You speak well enough, little demon.” Eayrne smiled. He cocked his head to peer past Deskin’s shoulder at Verna as if she were a meal. “Keep your plate full, songbird. I like flesh to grasp. And boy?” Earyne turned his sickly gaze on him, the sight sending a chill up his spine. “Don’t forget your place, lostman. I would hate to have to teach you a lesson, too.”

  Beirt giggled as they walked away to the stern. “Lostman, lostman, lostman.”

  Deskin turned to find Lapat steeling a look like an angry father. “Verna, I think it is for the best if we finish our meals somewhere else.”

  Deskin looked to Verna, her violet eyes flashing with thoughts. Can’t you see I’m trying to help?

  “I think somewhere else is best,” Verna said finally. She peeled away from him, her sight flicking between Earyne and him. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

  They walked away, leaving his bravado to sink like a stone in his gut. What the hells am I doing?