4. Zayan

4

Zayan

A h, walking into the Serpents’ den—what a way to court death.

I’d love to say I had it all mapped out—that I’ve got a couple Red Ones waiting in the shadows, ready to swoop in the second I give the word. That it’s all just a game, really. But no, this is as reckless as it gets, even for me.

There’s a whole list of reasons why I shouldn’t have done what I just did. Marauders and Serpents may call it a truce, but we all know that could crumble faster than a drunk sailor’s balance. Doesn’t take much to fan the flames.

But let Gypsy charge headfirst into chaos while I stand idly by? Not a chance. She’s a tempest, wrapped in a human form, leaving ruin in her wake, and that damned compass she clings to only drags her further into the storm. So here I am, strolling into enemy territory, smirk on my face like I own the place, knowing full well I’m surrounded by men who’d gut me for sport.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” I announce, hands raised in mock surrender, oozing charm like I’ve got nothing to fear. “Why all the hostility?”

Their stares burn hotter than the midday sun, teeth bared like wolves ready to pounce. Funny, isn’t it? Not too long ago, I sat in this very tavern, cloaked and unseen. Just goes to show, bad blood between the Old Bayou and Skullcove runs deeper than any half-baked peace treaty between Marauders and Serpents.

They don’t move. Not yet. But their glares slide toward the one man who does matter—Silverbeard. His eyes catch mine, cold as the ocean depths, and I see a flicker of recognition, followed by a slow, deliberate grin. It’s not the friendly kind.

“The boy, eh?” he mutters, his voice a low growl.

Yeah, I’m probably moments away from getting skewered. I don’t need to know Silverbeard personally to know he’s weighing how much pain he can squeeze out of me before I break. But here’s the thing—I don’t care. Not with Gypsy standing right next to him.

Ah, Gypsy. That look in her eyes? She thinks she’s hiding it, the way she stands there all stone-faced, arms crossed like she’s just watching another fight play out. But I see it. That flicker of worry, the brief flash of fear she can’t quite bury. She’s always trying to act like I’m some reckless fool she couldn’t care less about, like all the sex between us means nothing. But no one’s that cold. Not even her.

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? She can pretend all she wants that she’s got nothing to lose, that she doesn’t feel anything when I walk into sure death, but that spark in her eyes tells me everything. She doesn’t want me dead.

Silverbeard’s still grinning, taking his time, like he enjoys watching me sweat. But there’s no sweat. Not on me. I meet his gaze with that same cocky smirk, as if I’ve already played this hand and won. He doesn’t know that the one thing sharper than his blade is my nerve. I’ve walked through hell before, and I’ll do it again if it means keeping her from drowning in this mess.

“Silverbeard,” I say, tipping my head like I’m greeting an old friend, even though I’m ready for that sword of his to flash any second. “How about we skip the theatrics, yeah? I’m not here for a fight. Just came here to talk.”

“Talk?” He grins wider, a cold, empty smile. “Didn’t I just hear you spill everything I need to know? You’re the damn scurvy dog sneaking around with my daughter.”

The entire tavern seems to shift, as though the walls themselves are leaning in to watch. It must look worse than bad. I don’t even want to think about the mayhem that will result from what I’m about to do. A Marauder openly admitting to sleeping with Silverbeard’s daughter.

Fuck. If I don’t die here, then Roche is bound to kill me instead. There’s no easy way out for me anymore.

But I keep my smirk, eyes locked on Silverbeard. “Sneaking?” I scoff, stepping forward just a bit. “You make it sound like something shameful. But I suppose your idea of sneaking looks a lot like mine of having a little… fun.”

Gypsy tenses, arms still crossed, but her eyes are wide with panic. She glances between me and her father, knowing full well what I just did.

Silverbeard’s grin fades, his glare sharp enough to cut through bone. He’s deciding whether gutting me here would be worth the bloodshed.

“I’m just a man, Silverbeard,” I say, casual as you please. “You’re free to kill me if that’s what’ll settle your nerves.” A lie, of course. I’m not going down without a fight. “But your daughter? She’s as wild as the sea itself.”

His eyes narrow, and I know better than to compare her to The Lady. He’s touchy about the topic.

“Pick your next words wisely, boy,” he warns, voice like a razor’s edge. “Or I’ll cut out your tongue before I gut you.”

And there it is, the moment of truth. If these next words don’t get me killed by Silverbeard, they’ll surely have Gypsy seeing red.

“I’ve got a proposition,” I say, glancing her way. Her eyes widen, cheeks flush crimson. She’s already gripping her pistol, but it’s when she raises it to aim at me that I know she’s onto my plan.

“Silence your tongue, Zayan Cagney,” she snaps, “or I’ll silence it myself.”

Now we’re talking. Her little outburst just made this even more interesting. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s just sweetened the deal.

“Think you’re in a position to bargain, boy?” Silverbeard growls. His eyes flick to Gypsy. “Don’t kill him, girl.”

“Maybe,” I say, my tone unwavering. “I’ve got something you might find… useful.”

“Don’t listen to him, Silver,” Gypsy snaps. “He’s a Marauder. Lies are what he does best.”

The crew mutters in agreement, but I chuckle.

“How about you let your captain decide that, eh?”

The growls die down, all eyes turning to Silverbeard. But I’m not watching him anymore—I’m watching her. Damn it, I should be proving myself to him, but I can’t take my eyes off her. That fire in her eyes, the way her lips press into that tight line… it’s maddening.

She’s had me on a leash ever since that night I snuck aboard the Serpents’ ship. Any other pirate would’ve turned me in. Hell, any sane one would’ve run a blade through my gut. But her? She ordered me to please her. And I did. Not because I was caught, but because I wanted to. Now? I’d risk Roche’s fury, the fragile truce between our crews, all of it... for her.

Not that she’s ready to hear it. She wouldn’t even believe a fraction of what I feel.

“Speak, then,” Silverbeard’s voice booms, snapping me back to reality. I tear my eyes off her, finally meeting his gaze. “But waste my time, and I’ll have you feeding the fish before the tide turns.”

“This is ridiculous,” Gypsy mutters, her frustration pouring out in every movement. I see the twitch of her fingers near her gun, doubt flickering in her eyes. She’s probably cursing herself for ever trusting me. I can’t blame her. But it’s too late to change a damn thing now.

Silverbeard’s watching her too. He knows. He’s seen the cracks, the way she hesitates. That’s why I’m still standing here, breathing. He hates the Marauders, no doubt, but he’s willing to hear me out—for her. The fact that she might want me dead is the very thing keeping me alive.

“I think we’d better talk in private,” I say, lifting my chin. He’s not surprised. A man like him doesn’t get blindsided.

“Aye, let’s,” he replies, not missing a beat. He strides over to the tavern keeper, mutters something, then snatches a set of keys. Soon enough, he’s leading the way upstairs to a balcony, his crew casting wary glances my way. But there’s only one person standing in my path—a raven-haired woman, arms crossed, looking like she could tear a man in half.

I flash her a grin. Let her try.

“Weapons,” she demands, extending a hand.

I raise an eyebrow, slowly unstrapping my daggers, my pistol. “Am I getting them back?”

“Depends on what happens behind closed doors,” she replies, a sly grin tugging at her lips.

I laugh under my breath and hand her the lot. No use playing games here—liars always know their own kind.

Silverbeard and I step into one of the tavern’s few small rooms. It’s barely more than a box—four wooden walls, a crooked bed stuffed with hay, and a hammock swaying in the corner for the real sailors. The door creaks as it closes behind us, the sound too loud in the quiet that settles. The moment feels like a noose tightening around my neck, each step forward sinking me deeper into the clutches I created around myself.

Nowhere left to run.

For someone built like a mountain, Silverbeard moves with somewhat of a grace. He strides to a small table in the center of the room, pulls out one of two chairs with a squeal of wood, and takes his seat like a king on his throne. His gun, heavy and menacing, clinks as he sets it on the table between us, its barrel gleaming in the dim light.

Authority runs through his blood, same as it does with Roche. Command comes natural to them both.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, lad,” he says. His eyes still burn with that cold fury, though it’s tempered now, curiosity edging in. “Not many men would walk into the Serpents’ den on their own. You’ve got guts, or you’ve got rocks in your head. Which is it?”

I don’t sit. Not yet. I let the tension build, let him stew in the silence. “You tell me,” I reply, my gaze steady. “After you hear what I’ve come to say.”

Something shifts in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe respect. Hard to tell with men like him. “Ah, a bit of both, then.” He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight, and gives me a look like he’s already peeling apart every word I haven’t said yet. “So, what do you know?”

This is it. The point of no return. I take one breath all to myself, just to memorize how it feels before the hell breaks loose. Then, I strip the smile from my face and look him in the eye.

“She’s got the compass,” I say, my voice low but steady. A moment of pause. Enough for him to fully take in my meaning. “Bought it from Old Betty today. Apparently had a tab running for some time now.”

For a second, Silverbeard doesn’t move. His face remains stone, eyes unblinking, his body frozen as if time itself has stopped. Then, slowly, his hand drifts to his gun, his fingers brushing the barrel with a calm, almost ritualistic touch. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I don’t move.

“And you’re sure of this?” His voice, barely above a whisper.

Would I risk my life if I wasn’t?

I nod once, sharp. “I’m sure.”

He leans back further in the chair, the wood groaning under his weight. His fingers continue their slow, methodical stroke along the pistol’s barrel.

“If you’re lying to me…”

“I’m not.”

Another moment drags on. Silverbeard doesn’t do much, he just lifts his two bushy brows as his lips curve downward. Yet somehow, the atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s easy to deduce what this is really about, what truly turns him into a monster rather than a man.

His faith.

Everyone on these seas knows Silverbeard’s beliefs run deeper than the ocean itself. He wears feathers in his cap like a holy man wears prayer beads, never boards his ship with the wrong foot, and will slit the throat of anyone who so much as mutters the name of his ship wrong. Medusa’s Gaze is more than just a vessel to him—it’s a living, breathing entity, and Gypsy with that compass is like tempting the wrath of the gods. One goddess in particular—the Lady.

His very daughter defies that which is sacred to him. Which is absolute .

At last, he exhales, slow and controlled. “You’ve just stirred a hornet’s nest, boy,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. His gaze sharpens again, locking onto mine.

“I’m perfectly aware.”

His fingers leave the gun and move to the table, tapping against the table in an erratic rhythm. “And yet you dare,” he says, voice dripping with mock amusement. “Think that’s clever, do you?”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “Not clever at all. Quite the opposite, really.”

“Fucking right, it is.” He stands, a towering menace, moving slowly around the table. The weak light in the room is swallowed by his shadow as he stops before me, his presence choking the air between us. “The dumbest move you could’ve made for your own skin. Flogging you would be a mercy, after the insult you openly threw at me—bedding my daughter, then admitting you’re the keeper of her secrets...”

“But you won’t,” I say, voice calm and deliberate. I can see it in his eyes—he won’t, because his faith won’t allow him that. He knows it, and so do I.

“You’ve got no idea what that compass means.” His voice drops to a whisper, but there’s venom in it. “Not to her, not to me, not to anyone who understands the old ways.”

And he’s right. I don’t know a damn thing about their old ways. But what I do know is that Gypsy Flint has a grip on me I can’t shake, no matter how much I try. I throw up a front of arrogance, but deep down? I’m just as desperate, just as lost in the dark as he is. I can see it in his eyes, the fear creeping in behind the anger, the fear of losing control. The same fear that gnaws at me every time I think of her.

“Maybe I don’t understand your old ways,” I say, leaning in just a bit. “But I know one thing—that compass is trouble. And I’m not looking for that kind of trouble to find her .”

His lip curls into a sneer, a flash of red rising in his face like he’s one breath away from throwing a punch. But then he exhales, steps back, and turns his back to me—as if I’m beneath him. Like I’m no threat at all. My fingers twitch, eager to remind him of his mistake, to end him right there. But I don’t move. I force myself to stay perfectly still.

“Have you seen it? Does she have it on her?” he asks, not even bothering to look at me fully, just glancing over his shoulder.

“Seen it in her pocket, alright,” I reply, voice low but sharp. “Doubt she’d let it go. It means too much to her.”

And if you think otherwise, you’re more of a fool than I thought.

“Of course,” he mutters, like he’s got all the answers. “She guards her treasure close—just like I taught her.” Then he turns, eyes cold as he spits the next words. “But she didn’t expect her lover to betray her.”

The way he says lover drips with contempt, like it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. But betray —that word? Now that sounds downright filthy.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I deserve it. Nobody likes a traitor, no matter the reason. But I made my choice, weighed my options. Being called a filthy rat is a hell of a lot better than watching her get killed if I could have stopped it.

“This isn’t betrayal.” I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “This is protection. I’m keeping her alive.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “A Marauder saving a Serpent? Don’t insult me.”

“Laugh if you want,” I say, voice low, steady. “But she’s more than a Serpent to me.”

The words taste like rust. It feels wrong, being vulnerable—especially with him. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? So let it sting.

“And you’re nothing more than a Marauder to her,” he says, voice sharp. “She nearly gutted you the moment she laid eyes on you.”

I force my muscles to stay loose, steady. Fuck, I want to punch something. Instead, I crack a smile.

“And what do you think she does when we’re alone?”

Silverbeard’s nostrils flare, and his eyes harden into slits of steel. “Let’s say I believe all this,” he growls. “Let’s say I let you keep your life. Then what? You think I’m going to strip the compass from her hands? Drag her through the muck in front of the crew? Show them she had the gall to cross me?”

I take a breath, measuring my next words carefully. This conversation is already on thin ice.

“You could let her go,” I say, pushing down the knot in my throat. “Let her chase the compass like she wants. You could stand aside, untangle yourself from her mess, from me, and still show them you’re the one pulling the strings, no matter how this little drama plays out.”

Silverbeard narrows his eyes, considering my words, though his posture remains rigid, a man too steeped in pride to even entertain the notion of backing down. He hates it. I can feel it in the air between us, thick as tar, but there’s something else too—hesitation. The possibility that he might actually listen.

“Abandon my own daughter?” he breathes. “That’s your grand suggestion?”

I hold his gaze, though I can feel my heart hammering behind my ribs. “It’s not abandoning her. It’s… entrusting her safety to me.”

His boots grind into the floorboards. “Now you’ve reached new heights of madness, boy.”

“I mean it,” I say. “If hell or high water be her fate, then I’ll follow her there myself.”

“And the two of you will die like maggots in the belly of a rotting ship,” he spits. “What power do you think you have to even propose this? Ha! You have lost your mind.”

“Maybe I have,” I say, “but madness is better than letting her face this alone.”

“She won’t have to face anything if I lock her up in a cage and forbid from ever getting out.”

“And yet, you still hear me out,” I point out. “There must be a reason for that.”

Silverbeard’s lips vanish beneath his beard, his brows knitting so tightly it looks like his skull might crack under the pressure. A vein pulses dangerously at his temple, throbbing like it’s seconds away from exploding. And then he does something that catches me off guard—something I never expected. His body shifts, almost imperceptibly, but enough for me to notice. The hardness in his stance falters, a fraction, a flicker of vulnerability in a man I thought incapable of it. It’s enough to make me stumble, my heart racing, disbelief crashing through me like a wave.

But it’s his next words that truly knock the wind out of me.

“Do you love her?” he asks, the question slicing through the air like a blade.

I freeze. My lungs seize up. I hesitate. The words slip out of me before I can stop them.

“I don’t know,” I admit, voice rougher than ever. “But I’d burn the world before I let anything happen to her.”

His laugh is sharp, cold. Unforgiving.

“And you think that means something to me?” he snarls, each word a fresh wound.

Pain blooms deep in my chest, sharp and relentless. I should’ve lied. I should’ve said yes, given him the easy answer he wanted. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“No,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, thick with regret. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

His hand twitches toward his gun, and for a second, my blood runs cold. His finger curls around the trigger, and for one agonizing heartbeat, I’m sure this is it. I’m dead. All because I couldn’t lie to a question that should’ve been easy.

But then, he laughs. A sound so bitter, more bitter than before. The gun doesn’t fire. Instead, he slams it onto the table with a sharp click, the noise deafening in the heavy silence.

“Fine,” he growls, his voice like gravel. “Have it your way, then. But don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ve won a damn thing, boy. If anything... you just lost.”