Sol slammed the cabin door shut. “Sit up.”
Fynn bolted upright as a burst of icy wind escaped him. The loose papers on his desk and bookshelf scattered across the cabin in a storm of fluttering parchment. His crystals and geodes rattled, some of the larger pieces toppling over. “What are you doing here?” he asked warily, as if he felt the anger seeping out of her. “You know, it’s rude to just barge in—”
“Don’t you start with me,” Sol spat at him. Fynn shrank back at her tone. “When were you planning on telling me that our orders were to leave you behind if you didn’t return within two godsdamned hours? That’s not an awful lot of time to negotiate with Nero.”
The Captain’s cheeks were ashen. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he admitted. “Because I knew that if I did, it would lead to this exact conversation. Forgive me, Sol, for wanting to avoid another argument.”
“I let this go last night,” she reminded him.
Fynn scoffed, rubbing at his jaw to loosen the tension building there. “No, you didn’t. You gave me peace for an hour, then brought it back up when you thought I’d be easier to reason with.”
“There is no reasoning with you,” Sol countered. “Just waiting until you get your head out of your ass—”
The Captain started to his feet. “Don’t,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at her. “Don’t you dare pick a fight with me right now. You said last night that you didn’t want our last conversation to be an argument, so don’t make it one.”
The bronze, dented pitcher sitting on Fynn’s desk tipped over, the water inside spearing into Sol’s open palms. She stalked for the Captain, forcing him to yield back a single step until his knees hit the edge of his bed. “You will not resign yourself to death,” she snarled softly. “You will not step foot on that island with the intent of not coming home.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You don’t give me orders.”
Water splashed to the planks at her feet, abandoned by the Magic that Sol willed from her veins. She did not need it now, did not want it now. As angry as she might have been with him, Fynn was and never would be a threat to her.
Sol grabbed the collar of his tunic and yanked him close, close until her breath mingled with the Captain’s. He gripped her waist, holding her as if wielding his wind, as if she’d slip away if he let go. Sol stared at him, her fingers curling around the tanned column of his throat. She felt the pulse that raced there, the frantic beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.
She swallowed. “I should slap some sense into you. This is reckless.”
Fynn’s laugh was a whisper of air against her mouth. “I know.”
Her Magic went silent as she rose onto her toes and kissed him, as she closed her eyes and lost herself to the feeling of his lips against her own. Fynn stepped into her, pulling Sol against him and burying his hands into her hair, her curls tangling around his fingers.
Sol tasted salt on her tongue, and it was not the salt of the sea. No, she’d quieted that part of her, banished it from her blood to let the Captain kiss her in peace.
But Fynn must have tasted it, too, because he promptly pulled away and looked at her. His dark eyes searched her face, and he frowned at whatever he found there. “Sol,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs beneath her eyes to rid her cheeks of tears.
“I don’t want you to go.”
He pressed his head to her brow. “I don’t want to, either. But if Nero has the Dragon’s Heart, Sol, then I have to try.”
She gripped him harder, her fingernails cutting gently into the curve of his neck. “I don’t care about the godsdamned Dragon’s Heart, Fynn. I don’t care about Nero, or Magic, or the King getting his hands on the scale. I care about you.”
A broken laugh rasped out of him. “Now you tell me.”
Sol lightly slapped his chest. “I’ve made it very clear how much I care about you, you moronic, no-good pirate.”
Fynn gripped her wrist before she could pull it away. Sol flattened her hand against the center of the Captain’s chest, over the scar she knew was hidden beneath his tunic. A reminder of what this island may cost him. Cost her.
“I’ll come back,” Fynn vowed. He tucked a curl behind Sol’s ear. “I promise.”
She reveled in the beat of his heart against her palm, strong and steady. “You’d better,” she warned. “Or else I’ll come looking for you.”
Fynn chuckled. “I’ve given Riel strict orders to lock you in this cabin if you try.”
She narrowed her eyes in a half-hearted glare. “You knew I cared enough to come after you?”
He ducked his head and breathed, “I’d hoped.”
Sol rose onto her toes again, the Captain meeting her half way. He kissed her with such soft, heartbreaking gentleness. She felt him tug at her hair, his fingers sliding through her curls with a sort of familiarity that came only from having considered this moment.
This ship was not Arrowbrook, this cabin not the alleyway in the market. It was not like when adrenaline had fueled them both, Fynn kissing her with a blind curiosity of what she might do to shut him up, to make him stop apologizing for having kissed her in the first place.
It was tentative, perhaps desperate, like he would never again have this chance. He traced his thumb across her cheek, and Sol’s skin burned at the contact. Fynn meant it, whatever this was, this strange, growing fondness between them.
Sol could die from it, she realized. From the bliss and reverie that coursed right through her when she was with him.
Fynn tugged at the back of her neck, pulling her down, down until—
“Cap, we have a—Thymis’ wrath, are you two serious right now?”
Sol leapt back, Amael’s voice thrusting her back into her body, into reality, into her muddled, kiss-crazed senses. Likewise, Fynn had flung himself to the opposite end of the cabin, panting as if Sol had sucked the breath from his lungs.
“Shit, Amael, there’s such a thing called knocking.” Fynn dragged a hand through his hair, the dark strands damp with sweat from the sweltering heat of the cabin. Or so Sol assumed. “You’re just as bad as Riel.”
“If I’d known you two were in here doing that, I would have.”
Sol’s cheeks were ablaze with a blush. Her Magic crashed back into her, ripping at her insides for having cast it aside so carelessly. “What’s wrong?” Sol asked, her voice scraping against her throat. She felt parched, like her water had drained her dry as punishment. “You came barreling in here with a purpose, so something must have happened.”
She’d do anything for Amael to stop staring at them, to wipe the smugness from his face despite the fear still guttering in his eyes.
Fynn cleared his throat as he fixed the collar of his tunic. “You heard her,” he said tightly. “What happened?” Sol did not miss the grateful nod he threw her way. “Were we spotted?”
The boatswain pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said. “And that’s the problem.”
“Sounds like a blessing to me,” Fynn noted.
Sol combed her fingers through her hair, smoothing out the strands that Fynn had set in disarray. “Are we there yet?”