“No, wait!” Her sabre flashed as she kept it between herself and the marines closing in. “We’re privateers,” she yelled. “The Queen’s privateers!”

This wasn’t happening. Lords, she wanted to believe that. But just as sure as the air was thick with the taste of salt and seaweed, the deck thudded with the heavy footsteps of dozens of marines.

They levelled their rifles.

Unarmed, her crewmates had no choice. They raised their hands in surrender and knelt as they were ordered.

Only she remained standing.

Her chest heaved as she shifted her stance, ready to fight. One of the frigates was hard against the rail, leaving no space for her to leap over the side, and—bollocks, there were riflemen taking aim from its deck. Maybe she could hold them off long enough to get to the stern, jump overboard, and let the sea carry her away. They’d probably get off a few shots, but …

“It’s over, Vice.”

Knighton Blackwood. Close to her left shoulder, voice soft, pitched only for her.

She stared at him, breaths ragged.

His mask was in full force, no sign of even those little tells of his that she’d learned. No sign of humanity. No sign of anything.

“Surrender your weapon, and no one need die today.” His voice, though—it wasn’t as cold as the mask. A softness. A plea.

He really wanted her to give in.

And he wasn’t surprised by any of this.

“You bastard.” Her stomach clenched, and bile coated the back of her throat. “You knew … You planned this … All along …” A manic laugh burst from her. Had he been thinking about this all those times he’d taken her?

Oh gods, she’d thought herself the sly one, the one who deceived her way to victory.

What a fool she’d been.

“Wild Hunt take you, Knighton Villiers,” she whispered. Hanging her head, she flung her sabre to the deck. It clanged as loud as any ship’s bell, the sound heavy, rocking through her with such finality she thought she might die there and then.

But she didn’t. Her lungs kept moving, her heart kept hammering against her ribs, and her eyes followed Blackwood as he stepped in close and wrapped rope around her wrists.

There was no dock, no sky, no ship. No marines or crew. No sun or wind. Only this caving feeling in her chest and the increasing pressure on her flesh, the hemp chafing her skin. And him.

His gaze stayed on the rope as he worked. “I did warn you not to trust me,” he said softly, yanking the knot tight.

She stared at the twisted rope, unable to do anything but breathe and blink. He had warned her. The first time they’d stood together in her cabin, in fact.

And fool that she was, she thought she knew better.