Drawing a fortifying breath, Vice jerked away from Perry’s touch. She was not content. Well, no more so than usual—she was always content because she was happy with herself, with who she was. It was everyone else that was the problem: it was only a matter of time before they let you down.

And Knigh was no exception.

With a stiff smile, she backed away. “You’re wrong.”

Her chest heaved as she strode aft, ducking beneath the lines her crewmates manned to adjust the sails and gritting her teeth as Barnacle dug her claws in to stay in place.

Best not to rely on anyone too much, certainly not for her own happiness. She’d made that mistake before, and she wouldn’t do it again. She was past needing anybody.

Perry might know some things, but on this occasion, she was so very wrong.

Sharp little claws dug into her shoulder again, and Barnacle jumped from her shoulder.

Vice flinched, blinking back to attention. She stood outside FitzRoy’s door. She hadn’t known where she was going when she walked away from the bow, but now she was here—yes, it made perfect sense. Her instincts knew exactly what she needed.

She would prove Perry wrong and rid herself of this pathetic yearning for Knighton Blackwood.

And it was pathetic. Just this morning she’d found herself thinking foolish, foolish thoughts. Lying against him in the afterglow of sex, she’d laughed to herself. If this is what being with Knigh’s like, maybe marrying Knighton Villiers wouldn’t have been so bad.

Urgh. No. No!

Being with him had clouded her mind. Made her weak. Made her think feelings were happening. All wrong. This was just physical.

It was something physical that she liked. That she wanted. That was warm and felt good and right and …

No. Just sex. Just bodies.

All she needed was someone else’s touch to remind her that he wasn’t anything special.

Lords, even just thinking it felt so much better—her breaths calmed, the warmth trickled back through her like ice-melt in Albion’s early spring.

Her stomach twisted, yes, but …

She stood with her hand on the door to FitzRoy’s cabin, the timber reassuringly solid. Her feet didn’t want to step back to allow her to open it. Her hand refused to lower and grip the handle.

I don’t want this.

It was a quiet voice right at the very back of her mind, the same place that tickled when something was wrong, when danger was near. Even now, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickled.

Such a quiet voice. Soft.

Weak.

She didn’t want Fitz. Hadn’t for a long time. But he’d been safe—she didn’t need him. He couldn’t destroy her.

Blackwood … Knigh …