Page 65 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

“I only ask, because a few of the people here can’t swim—Jilleen, and one of your sister’s thralls, and—”

“What is wrong with you? What are you trying to say—oh!” He whisks me off my feet and barrels into the waves, deeper than we’ve yet gone. I yelp and struggle, but when my guards charge into the surf to rescue me, I wave them off. Over Ducayne’s shoulder I see them halt, confused, before trudging back to the dry sand and emptying water from their boots.

And then I can’t see anything, because my world dissolves into roaring spray. A giant wave smacks against our bodies, nearly knocking Ducayne off his feet. But his arms around me are rock-solid. Arms I can count on.

Until he dumps me into the ocean.

I right myself immediately, breaking the surface and gasping for air. He’s there, grinning, glistening.

“Bastard,” I hiss—but then another huge wave crashes over us. I hold my breath, fighting for the surface. This is far different than swimming in lakes or rivers. By some miracle I manage to keep my hold on the cowrie shell as I thrash.

Ducayne’s hand grips my upper arm, lifting me. When my head clears, he says, “Don’t struggle. Relax into the wave, let it carry you. It’s fun.”

“Fun?” I choke. “I’m going to havefunwith you later. Nipple clamps for days. And I’m going to cut you in so many—”

“Wave,” he warns, and I suck in a breath before I’m submerged again, enraged and kicking. I surface quickly, though—just in time to see Ducayne’s body utterly relaxed, rolling along with the wave. He comes back up, smiling, swiping water from his face with a broad palm.

The next time a wave comes, I inhale before it hits, and I force my limbs to yield. To relax.

My whole body dips and surges with the movement of the wave. I’m carried toward shore a little way before the water rushes back out to sea.

That wasn’t intolerable.

I try it again, and again. I begin to crave that moment of weightlessness, that undulating momentum when I’m sightless and submerged, with the ocean gurgling in my ears and my body entirely at rest.

In the sea I have no worries. No tasks. No guilt, no moral quandaries, no training, no questions about my future. All I need to think about is the next merciful wave, how it will lift me up and carry me along.

Ducayne and I surface together. He wears a knowing grin, and I shift closer, smacking him lightly across the cheek. He laughs and dives into the next wave, burrowing through its depths like an eel.

I lose track of how long we roll and dive and swim in the ocean. I wedge the cowrie shell deep in my corset where it makes an odd lump—because for some reason I’m reluctant to give it back to the ocean. It is mine.

Another wave—another blessed, buoyant lift, another swell of freedom and joy through my body. When I come up this time, I’m smiling. No, I’m laughing.

Ducayne stares at me, wide-eyed, beaming. Then he hooks his hand around the back of my neck and drags my mouth to his.

The next wave overwhelms us. Carries us. He doesn’t let go. The clasp of his hand at my nape, the hard press of his mouth, the bubbling gurgle of the deep—all of it swirls in my head, and I reach for him. I find his ribs, slide my arms past them, wrap my body against his.

We bounce up again, into the bright air.

He breaks the kiss, and we breathe.

That kiss did not terrify me. I didn’t have the compelling urge to grab a knife, to hurt him. I blink into his handsome face, into those aching, joyful eyes of his, and I think about kissing him again.

But my eye catches on a dark form in the water, a little distance away. The central shape is surrounded by smaller, quick-darting shadows.

Ice blazes along my nerves. “Ducayne! Are those slithersharks?”

He follows my gaze. “Can’t be. They only congregate to feed on dead things—whale carcasses, dead dolphins, drowned sailors—”

I’m moving away from him, toward the dark shapes. The biggest shape—it looks like—

“Ruelle, stop!” Ducayne cries.

But I plunge into the waves, swimming arm over arm as fast as I can.

Within seconds I reach the body. A white, glassy-eyed face. Honey-blond hair streaked with red.

Lombard’s mistress, Jilleen. She’s been bitten in several places already—whole chunks of flesh removed from her cheek and throat.