He closed his eyes briefly. Rain pelted his skin. And in the dark, he saw Sabine. She had looked tired. Not the kind of tired one cured with sleep. The kind that came from running too long, trusting too few, and knowing too much. She was a valuable asset and a friend, but in this game of spies, she was not one he could fully trust.
He remembered her hands—steady, precise, stained with ink and gunpowder. She had once dismantled a musket blindfolded to prove a point. He had never asked what the point was. He suspected it had something to do with survival. Survival in their game was never guaranteed.
The Sea Drake surged forward. The sails whipped with a furious rhythm, the deck creaking and groaning under the storm’s wrath. Lord Tristan felt his heart pace in tandem with the ship, each wave a drumbeat in a symphony of tension.