I folded my arms over my chest, let out a breath of annoyance, and went to the rail. “What can I do for you, Sentry Ashwood? Come to thieve more plums?”

Gods, I was a damn fool. To provoke a man like Ashwood surely would end with my neck slit and my bones draped from the mast.

But Roark’s wild eyes brightened, as though he took delight in my petulance.

“It amuses you, doesn’t it?” I stepped closer, a mere pace away. “I know you marked my cart. You knew who I was from the beginning.”

Ashwood took a slow, sweeping inspection of me with his eyes, drinking me in from brow, to throat, down my chest to…

I folded my arms over my body.

Roark plucked a scrap of parchment from a pouch on his belt. With his opposite hand he made a gesture of writing, then tilted his head, brows arched like a query.

After a pause, he waved his palms.

“You want to know if I understand you or you need to write?”

He smirked. I hated when he smirked.

“I’m picking up your words rather quickly. Try me.”

Again, the Sentry paused. Not from any sort of satisfaction, more like he was displeased he hadn’t frightened me into submission.

With one hand, he spoke slowly, giving me time to catch the words. Have you ever had a decent meal?

Bastard. “I ate plenty before you tore innocent lives apart.”

For a breath, Roark seemed stunned I understood. There wasn’t time or desire to explain how his gestures resonated within me, as though the words were felt, not studied on his fingers.

I wanted to feel nothing for a man such as him, and certainly didn’t want him to know I was failing.

He went on. I was not the one who hid a melder.

“No,” I said, voice rough. “But you gave the orders to tear us from home. You ordered her to hurt Kael.”

If Ashwood held any remorse, he didn’t show it, merely nodded with a simple gesture. True.

Anger, fear, all of it was freeing my tongue. “Why did you not take me in the Fernwood? You find satisfaction in toying with the fears of others, is that it? How did you know it was me when we have never met?”

He didn’t respond with his hands. Instead, Ashwood took up the parchment again and a narrow charcoal stick from the pouch. He hurriedly wrote out a few words and slid the parchment along the rail, waiting for me to take hold before removing his hand.

Our fingers brushed. I recoiled at once. His touch should’ve been cold, unfeeling, not…warm.

Roark frowned and flexed his fingers before curling them back into a fist, nodding with irritation for me to read.

My methods are my own.

When I merely scowled and looked away from his response, Roark added to the parchment.