Page 31 of Bloody Black

“I’m right here. Right next to you.” A muscle feathers in his jaw. “I won’t let him harm you.”

I stroll through the brothel, as if I’m one of its women. Behind me, Teach chats with the owner, who fawns over him. He plays the part of a captain well, even though he never officially was one.

He’s tall, imposing, with a regal bearing. Having him pose as Blackbeard, famed scourge of the seas, is far too easy. People fall all over themselves, eager to curry his favor. After all, it’s not every day that the great pirate Blackbeard comes to call.

Me, they ignore entirely, his little wife with nothing to say.

The scent inside the Sinner’s Rest is thick—strong perfume, sweat, and sex.

The air hums with muffled whispers and the occasional sharp cry of pain.

Despite the hour, the inhabitants of its rooms are fully awake, and behind every door seems to be a grunting, moaning cacophony.

I move carefully, heels silent against worn floorboards.

The hallway is narrow, forcing me to sidestep a woman in a loose chemise, her breath reeking of cheap rum and cardamom as she sleeps, breathing heavily through her mouth. Drunk.

I reach the end of the corridor, where the doors are fewer and more private. These rooms belong to the high rollers, the dangerous men, the ones who don’t want to be seen. I see the last door on the left, walnut wood chipped and worn, the brass handle dulled with use.

There’s an X drawn in red, handmade by one of my faithful spies. That’s where my target lies.

“‘X’ marks the spot, ” I mutter to Teach, and my fingers tighten around the dagger strapped to my thigh .

One breath. Two.

Inside, there’s a crack, a muffled scream. The sounds of struggle, the rip of fabric. The unmistakable grunt of a man forcing himself onto a woman.

Baldric. It sounds like he’s still the same sort of person he’s always been. Taking advantage of the weak, using force even when a woman is willing.

Because Baldric likes pain. Humiliation and hurt give him a thrill.

Good thing I’m here to give all three to him.

With a grim expression, I silently turn the knob. Freshly oiled, it doesn’t make a sound as I ease open the door.

The lamp’s amber glow casts long shadows across the room, illuminating a tangle of struggling bodies on the bed. A woman’s gilded curls spill over the pillows, her pink shift half-torn, one pale leg kicking out in defiance.

Beatrice. That’s her name. I’ve met her twice before.

Baldric looms over her, his back to me, his massive frame blocking her from view. He’s bigger than I remember. Not just broad but thick, softened by excess. The man who once cut through men like a scythe through wheat now wheezes as he grapples with a woman half his size.

I strike before he can react, intending to put him out properly. A swift snap of my wrist, and the sap—a weighted leather club, compact but devastating—cracks against the base of his skull.

He grunts. Stiffens. But instead of collapsing like dead weight, he whirls .

Pain explodes in my ribs as his fist slams into me, knocking me backward into the dresser. The wooden edge bites into my spine, knocking the air from my lungs.

“Who the hell?” he slurs, blinking through the haze, his instincts still sharp, despite too much drink and too much weight.

I recover quickly. He’s already lumbering toward me, meaty hands swinging. I duck low, twisting to the side as his fist glances off my shoulder. He’s slow but heavy, every movement like a bull trying to crush me against the walls.

I drive my knee up, aiming for his gut—but it’s like hitting a sandbag. Off-balance, I stagger as his hand clamps around my wrist and he yanks me forward.

He grins, spittle on his lips. “Come to play, pretty girl?”

With a savage yanking, he throws me into a bedpost. Beatrice rolls away, crying out.

He lunges toward us both, intending to flop on top of me or her, who knows which, so I grab the first weapon within reach—the brass oil lamp from the bedside table.

And swing it straight at his head.

Baldric falls backward like a felled ox, all muscle and dead weight. A huge cut opens across his forehead, bleeding and bleeding.

Beatrice scrambles out of the bed, her wide brown eyes meet mine as she clutches her ripped nightgown.

“You can drop the act. He’s out cold.”

Her face immediately shifts—recognition, relief, then cool calculation. She releases her gown, not caring in the slightest if her breasts are bared .

“Well done.” I toss a blue velvet bag across the room and onto the bed. “Forty pieces of gold, as promised.”

She tilts her head, her long golden curls falling over her shoulder. “Piece of shit,” she announces, giving him a vicious kick to the ribs.

Baldric groans.

She laughs and kicks him again.

I don’t waste time. Grabbing two fistfuls of Baldric’s coat, I heave—and immediately regret it.

He’s heavier than I thought. So much heavier.

The weight pulls at my shoulders, forcing me to brace my legs wider for leverage.

Damn it. Old Baldric was hard muscles and sharp edges.

This one is thick-necked, soft-bellied, and smelling of rancid meat.

I shift my grip, hooking one arm under his armpit, dragging his limp form toward the door. Every step is an effort. Sweat beads at my temple. My breathing turns sharp and measured, fighting against the urge to curse aloud.

Beatrice smooths her hair, watching me struggle. “You need help?”

“No.” I grit my teeth. “You’ve done enough.”

She shudders, adjusting her bodice. “Don’t be gentle. He never is.” She pauses. “Last year, he killed one of our girls. Diana. She was my friend.”

I pause. Then hold out my knife to her, hilt first.

“Stab him if you want. But don’t kill him. He’s got days of suffering ahead, and we wouldn’t want him to miss all the fun.”

Paling, she shakes her head, licks her lips. She probably has never fired a pistol, never held a dagger .

“That’s alright,” I tell her, slipping the knife back into its holster. “I’ll make sure he pays for both of your suffering.”

My muscles burn, my fingers ache. I maneuver his bulk through the narrow doorway.

Just before I close her door again, I tell her: “When someone asks, I’m a tall male, dark beard, finely dressed, and he left with me willingly.”

She rubs a gold coin between her fingers, and I note that her nails are chewed to the quick. Just like mine. “You want me to tell them Blackbeard took him?”

My answering smile is slow and sinister. “Absolutely.”