You are a real asshole. Also, why are there no pictures?
I pass his bland-ass phone back and watch him read the message. There’s something different about communicating with people through the written word. Their reactions are less guarded this way, and I get to see every emotion in real-time.
His stupid, worried face goes from a twinge of anger to surprise and then lands on an emotion that causes a school of guppies to have a racing contest in my stomach. I suck in a breath of air, which incites a wince.
“First, stop the name-calling. No one else here so much as calls me by my first name.” He pauses, hesitating on the next answer. “Pictures of what? The ocean? There’s plenty of it to look at out there. It existed before we did and will continue to exist once we’re gone.”
I smirk. Now,thatsounds like something I’d read in one of those philosophical books on his shelf. My hand shoots out and steals the phone again.
You don’t have anything besides the sea you care about enough to take a picture of?
He considers for less than half a second. “Nope.”
But then his eyes lock, and like witnessing a light turn on in his mind. He sees something in me at that moment.
We stare at each other, and he watches me adjust the rag against my nose. The air has become thick with a new kind of tension. Holding my gaze, Erik does the unthinkable and moves closer.
The space around us is alive with electrical charges. Thoughts fall away as my senses heighten. His hand comes up, presumably to touch my face, and my skin tingles at his nearness, anticipating his touch.
“I really am sorry,” he whispers again as he shifts a corner of the rag to wipe away blood on my cheek. Violent power envelops us. I look down, expecting to see sparks dancing in the air between us, but there is nothing there. Still, the energy remains. I would be scared, except this power is different from what my father is capable of. This kind of power is intangible and magnetic. A part of me craves the sensation of his skin on mine. It coaxes me to lean into him.
And that’s the thought that scares me.
So, instead, I do the next logical thing. My hands fly out and shove him hard.
He makes a muffled sound as he crashes back into the wall and loses his footing. A series of loudthudsfollow him as he somersaults down the stairs. Not wanting another lecture or another heated fight, I bound back up the stairs into the mess hall.
The entire crew is there, and they all turn their heads to stare at me. It’s clear I’ve become their dinner entertainment. I’m still covered in blood, and I’m breathing a bit rapidly from the surge of emotions.
“Everything okay, Maddie?” Jean Luc says from behind the bar. He doesn’t outwardly say it, but I see him search behind me for Erik.
I shrug slightly too enthusiastically just as Erik’s furious footsteps thump up the stairs. I tense, not allowing myself to look back.
Anders stands up from the table, “Cap—“
“She pushed me,” he half-shouts. He’s at my side now, and I steal a glance. He looks very disheveled, and his hair is a mess. I fight against a smile that’s threatening to surface and make this situation ten times worse.
“Madeline, I will see you in my office,” he grinds as he wraps his hand around my elbow.
No one speaks as he drags me into the room at the back of the mess hall. He slams the door after we pass through it.
“Sit,” he hisses.
I remain standing and place my bloody rag on the polished wood. With my nose functioning more normally, I try not to notice how nice this office smells. How much it smells of him. I also try to ignore how much that scent relaxes me.
There should be nothing relaxing about the Pirate of Death.
He lets out a strangled sound. “Fine! You win.”
I tilt my head, watching him carefully. Waiting to see what exactly I won.
Erik throws his hands up, and I shift uneasily. “No more bitchy notes scattered around my ship, no more pestering my officers.”
My stomach is in knots now. I can’t read what he intends to do. If we’re being honest, I’m expecting him to call for another chopper to take me away. Instead, he pulls out a drawer on his wooden desk with enough force to nearly break it. He rummages around and then grabs a white cardboard box. I glimpse several more, just like it lying side by side.
This man must be made of money.
“These,” he starts, noticing my nosiness, “are burner phones. I buy them so that I can throw them away later. I’m giving you one. It will work well enough. You can have mine and Jean Luc’s number in case you need something.”