I tried to heed Jobah’s advice and listen to what Priest didn’t say with words. But every visit yielded the same as the first. He glared in brooding silence. I analyzed every twitch. He demanded my fidelity. I repeated my threats. We argued. He roared, and I left.

I refrained from torture or fornication—with him or anyone else. I tried gentle.

“Gentle doesn’t work with Priest.” I stood alone in my cabin, naked and resolved. “He leaves me no choice.”

I grabbed a peeled orange from the desk, held it to my chest, and squeezed. The juices sluiced down my breasts, and I caught the sticky rivers, rubbing nectar into my skin from shoulders to waist.

With my torso bathed in the fruit, I donned Priest’s shirt. The white one with leather laces he’d left in my cabin a week ago. It hung to my knees and still smelled like him—dark, musky, sinful. But not for long.

From a small sea chest, I removed a bottle of odoriferous water I’d bought from an apothecary some months ago. Removing the cork, I doused my hands and ran them over the shirt. The aroma of clove oil, rosemary, and cinnamon reached my nose, subtle yet strong enough to dilute the scent of orange.

That done, I scrubbed my hands until every trace of pulp was removed from my fingers and nails. Then I made my way to Priest.

At the hatchway to the bilge, I paused, breathed deeply, and gathered my strength.

Yesterday I left him seething with the uncertainty of whether I would return or who I might return with. If my visit today didn’t produce the compass, I would have no choice but to come back with a crewmate and make good on my pledge to fuck another. Probably Reynolds.

But I couldn’t think about that right now. Couldn’t let myself get dragged into the anguish of doing something so shitten.

I needed this to work. If I angered Priest badly enough, he would surrender what I needed and be finished with me.

I can do this.

Cold, hard purpose soaked into my muscles, immersing the panic as I opened the hatch and descended. At the bottom of the ladder, I stood tall and turned slowly.

His silvery gaze grabbed me from across the dim space, arrowing in on his shirt. I wore nothing beneath the white linen, and though it wasn’t transparent, it didn’t hide the shape of my nipples or the curves of my form. His gaze feasted on every dip, lowered to where the fabric brushed my knees, and rose to my eyes.

My heart thundered uncomfortably as we stared at each other.

I felt it then, had prepared myself for it—the mysterious, knee-weakening alchemy that simmered in the air between us.