Page 4

Crazy Bitch

Callum

Their impasse lasted for hours.

Not that he minded.

She had picked up the bowl of chowder though, occasionally sipping from it.

He’d taken the opportunity to sketch the Arryvian.

With her back to him and her white hood hanging around her shoulders, he could see the intricacies of her interlaced braids, her delicately pointed ears peeking out on either side of her head.

The braids were woven into a lattice pattern, entwined with locks of her dark hair, the curling length falling in a tangle down her back.

Somewhere, he had heard that the Arryvian women carry messages in their hair.

That locks braided and coiled up tightly were a sign of marriage and that loose hair meant an unwed woman.

But then, what did this mean? Was there a ritual to it, or were the braids merely a symbol of her rank and station within the tribe? Was “tribe”

even an accurate term to describe their social groups? How would they refer to themselves, and how would that translate from the Arryvian language?

He wrote his questions on a separate page.

It was going to be a very long journey indeed if she continued to behave like a stubborn child.

Someone must have known her name, someone higher up, but they were apparently keeping such details on a need-to-know basis.

While he didn’t understand why he was tasked with getting such basic information, it was not his job to question orders.

He just got the job done.

He began to draw her clothing.

The white robe, now stained and muddy, opened in the front, ornately carved toggles holding it closed.

The stitching was unlike any he’d seen before, and there was a certain drape to the fabric, a unique sheen and weave.

Beneath the robe, a softer garment of red and yellow peeked through.

She spoke the common language eloquently, so she was educated.

Clearly, she was accustomed to getting her own way; as evidenced by her prolonged tantrum.

Her ongoing pleas of innocence were grating on his nerves.

She was obviously hiding something.

This Arryvian was a terrible liar.

More questions swirled in his mind, one after another.

Why had she been educated? Where had she been going with her escort and companion? Who was she? She spoke of the governor as if she knew him personally.

She stood longer than he expected, he’d give her that.

The stubborn set of her jaw unwavering and her eyes trained on the wall across from her, oblivious to the mess she’d created.

Callum peered around at the warped bed, trying to come to terms with what he’d seen.

He’d never been one to believe in magic, and yet, before his very eyes she’d performed it as if it were second nature.

Not that it did her much good.

Still, he was impressed with her escape attempt.

And ravenous to learn more about her.

Her magic, that is.

A soft knock on the door interrupted the silent battle of wills.

She started, a ripple of surprise flowing down her hair and clothing.

Her eyes darted to the door, but Callum’s never left her face.

“Colonel,”

Jameson’s voice came from the other side.

“Enter.”

Jameson entered the room and approached with a quick glance at the prisoner, his hazel eyes bright and inquisitive.

Callum raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word “behave,”

at which Jameson only smirked.

He leaned forward to whisper, and Callum tipped his head to offer his ear.

While he spoke, Jameson peered around the room, his eyes widening and brows arching incrementally higher as he took in the destruction.

“A parcel has arrived for you.

It seemed urgent.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Jameson nodded and left the room, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he stole one more glimpse of the woman, but Cal could see the calculations turning in his head.

She didn’t look up from the chowder, merely continued taking hesitant sips from the side of the bowl.

Interesting.

He expected more curiosity from her.

Callum noted that her color was better now that she’d eaten.

The door clicked shut and her onyx eyes snapped to him.

“Well, this has been lovely,”

he began, lifting the clipboard from the desk, his hand sliding to his pocket.

“But, seeing as you ruined the bed…”

Thwack.

She gaped at the dart embedded in her shoulder.

She let out a horrified gasp and the bowl clattered to the floor, sloshing the runny chowder over her robes as she gripped her arm.

He slowly lowered the tiny blow gun, tucking it carefully back into his sleeve.

“I have to put you under again,”

he finished apologetically.

“You snake!”

Her shoulders sagged against the wall and her breathing slowed, but her gaze bore into his for several moments until the heavy lashes fluttered closed.

Callum sighed and leaned against the desk for a moment before stepping closer to the unconscious Arryvian.

He bent to pick her up, sliding his arms under her ribs.

No more wooden beds for her.

She would get a metal cot in the hull.

Searing heat lanced through his side, a blade finding purchase between his ribs, ripping into his once neatly stitched flesh.

He groaned both in pain and frustration.

Thoughts flashed through his mind in rapid succession.

It wasn’t a killing blow.

It didn’t hit any organs.

Where the fuck did she get another knife?

“Two can play this game, Colonel,”

she whispered as he dropped her and slumped against the desk, clutching his wound.

She stood up straight, a victorious smile pushing at her lips, which then twisted into a wince as she tugged the dart from her shoulder and tossed it on the ground.

He drew up to his full height, calm focus pumping through his veins.

He’d been reasonable and ended up bleeding again.

Fine.

They would do this the old fashioned way.

After all, he only needed to wait until the poison took hold.

Callum began counting.

One.

He took a breath, and a sharp sting radiated from the wound, fueling the adrenaline as he retaliated.

Two.

His fist connected with her jaw, the sickening crunch twisting his stomach.

The impact sent her spinning away into the wall, her eyes glazing as she crumbled on wobbly legs.

Three.

“I’ll make sure to add that skill to my notes: watch for knives,”

he grumbled.

A dark wet spot grew on his uniform and it hurt to breathe.

This cat had sunk her claws in him one too many times.

He dared not look away from her as he pressed his hand against his side, the blood oozing wetly through his fingers.

Four.

She sank to the ground, holding her face with one hand, her other still clutching the bloody wooden knife.

She gave him a glassy-eyed look of disbelief that simmered with fury.

Heavily, but deliberately, she shifted her shoulders toward him.

She was ready to fight.

With her knife in one hand, the other reached for a wooden splinter on the floor, the shard already shifting and twisting into a pointed blade.

Two knives.

She smirked at him.

Fuck.

Five.

Callum shook his head, and he grunted as he stripped off his jacket.

His holster was empty, the weeping wound staining his light shirt.

He was surprised to see her shrug her own robe from her shoulders, letting it puddle around her feet like freshly fallen snow he’d seen once in a book.

This bitch was crazy.

And the viper was more trouble than she was worth.

Six.

“This hardly seems fair,”

he mused, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, the exertion clearly taking a toll on her.

Almost there.

Her body was failing.

“Shall I go easy on you, Colonel?”

He scoffed and shook his head.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Arryvian.

But I will if I must.”

Seven.

“Only one of us here is bleeding—you may have miscalculated.”

She bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile that was more of a snarl.

Fucking savage.

Callum wove his way around the broken furniture she’d barricaded herself behind.

Eight.

Any moment now.

“The room’s a mess.

The bed’s in ruins,”

he said as he moved, circling the cornered woman, buying time while he slipped his hand under the desk, releasing the secret compartment and palming a syringe.

“And, as you pointed out, I’m in need of medical attention.

Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

He took another step forward, moving around the broken bed.

He’d caught a rattler once, when he was younger.

The key was distraction.

And speed.

Nine.

“I want you to return me home.”

“I already told you—no can do.”

“Then I want nothing from you,”

she growled, crouching lower, ready to pounce as he stepped nearer.

“Surely I can offer you somethin’…”

He swept his arm around the room and her eyes followed the motion with sharp focus.

Ten.

He struck.

Yanking the jacket from the chair he flung it at her head, the heavy uniform collapsing over her face.

Years of training and practice gave him the advantage and he easily closed the gap between them and stabbed the needle into her shoulder as she ripped the jacket off and threw it to the floor, enraged.

Her sharp gasp sucked the air from the room and her whole body went rigid.

The snarl that dripped from her lips was a rabid, feral thing, and she slashed again, breathing laboriously.

He nimbly dodged her swipe this time and caught her wrist in his hand, squeezing until she winced and dropped the blade.

Eleven.

Her other wooden blade, slick with his blood, arced repeatedly through the air, trying to land a good blow, but he kept her expertly angled away until he captured her other wrist.

She struggled, her skin glistening with sweat.

Twelve.

His brow shot up.

Surely, two doses of venom should render her unconscious for days, yet, here she was, unbearably stubborn.

It had to be her magic.

The woman flung her head back and connected with his nose and a crunch sent blinding light through his head, sparks floating behind his eyes.

For a moment he forgot to breathe as blood dribbled over his lips.

This fucking woman!

Thirteen.

With a growl, Callum knocked the blade from her hands with his palm and reinforced his grip on her wrists.

Stepping behind her, he crossed them in front of her and tugged her back into his chest.

Finally, he felt her lag against him.

He took the moment to suck in a breath.

With a jerk, she freed a wrist and those claws of hers reached up to scratch at his face, leaving gashes over his cheeks before he was able to snatch her wrist again.

Fourteen.

Her chest heaved and she tried to bash his face once more, but didn’t quite get the momentum she needed.

Her feet scrambled on the floor, but her body was already slowing.

Fifteen.

She finally went limp, her head resting against his chest, bouncing slightly with the pounding of his heart.

Callum eased her body to the floor and softened the grip on her wrists.

She stared at the window with dilated pupils, swallowing nearly all of her irises, her gaze fixed on the clouds.

Finally, the poison was working like it should have.

He knew what it would feel like.

First, the limbs grow heavy, then a strange warmth spreads through the back. Next, vision and hearing start to fade, like going through a tunnel.

Her coal eyes collided with his—alight with fury—her raven tresses splayed over his legs and across the floor.

“Eventually I’ll have to switch to somethin’ stronger if you keep throwing fits like this,”

he panted.

Fifteen seconds was far too long.

Her lips moved to speak, no doubt to spit more foul curses upon his name.

But her lids grew heavy and her dark lashes fluttered closed once more, caging the hatred beneath.

When she was fully unconscious and her breathing even, Callum stood and called for Jameson.

“Dear gods, what happened?”

Jameson asked.

He surveyed the room, noting the mangled bed, the robe on the floor, blood, knives, and the prone woman.

Then, finally grinning as he took in Callum’s bloody nose and mouth.

“Looks like she got ya.”

Callum’s stomach clenched again as he surveyed his fallen opponent.

A splotchy bruise was already appearing on her face and her fine clothing was torn in places, tan skin peeking through.

“She decided to stab me. Again.”

The guilt was fleeting, another wave of searing heat blazing against his ribs reminding him that she deserved it.

She’d been armed and attacking him.

“And broke your nose too, by the looks of it.”

Jameson eyed the woman warily.

“I’m goin’ to get stitched up.

Take her to one of the oritium store rooms with a metal cot.

No more wood.

If she could shape metal, she’d have busted out a while ago.”

If this had been his ship and his crew, this would have been much easier.

Instead, they had to rely on whatever this damn trade ship had on hand and hope these sailors could keep their mouths shut.