Chapter Text
The door to the room swung open, right on time, as expected. Just as Hawke expected the small elven woman who was bringing her meal: the usual tray of fresh bread, cured venison, and a mug of ale.
These people had to be consistent and dependable, after all. Especially if they wanted to uphold their reputation, one that was well-known and well-earned all around Thedas.
Hawke sighed and stood up, wordlessly accepting the tray and setting it down on the nearby table before sitting back down on the bed. Piercing-blue eyes roamed around the cozy, if small, room, automatically picking out the easiest escape route, while her mind instinctively created the easiest way to overpower the silent elf standing in front of her.
Something that the elf did not miss, not in the way that her brow arched up and she aimed a knowing look at Hawke.
Hawke sighed again, flopping back down on the bed and lacing her hands behind her head as she curled her knees and stared up at the ceiling, “Thanks, Nehra. I’ll call you back later once I’m done eating.”
“Think nothing of it, Hawke,” Nehra inclined her head graciously, then hesitated for a few seconds before she grabbed a nearby chair and placed it beside Hawke’s bed, sitting down and crossing her arms and legs as she considered the Fereldan, “Our offer is still open, you know. You do not have to stay cooped up in here. The company could always use someone of your talents.”
Hawke closed her eyes as the quiet words washed over her. In another lifetime, it would have been an offer that Marian Hawke would have accepted without a second thought. A chance to control her own destiny, to have grand and bold adventures with people such as Nehra and her company? It was the kind of offer that these people didn’t make lightly, and it was the kind of offer that opened the door to lives filled with immeasurable wealth and opportunity.
But it was not an offer that Marian Hawke could take. Not now, not like this.
Cracking an eye open, Hawke looked at the elf out of the corner of her eye. The woman was perhaps one of the most surprising people that Hawke had ever met, and that was saying a lot, considering just how many unique characters she had come across in her life.
At first glance, the diminutive elf seemed to be nothing special. While her face was heavily tattooed with the telltale vallaslin of the Dalish, the green pattern branching out from her forehead and reaching all the way down to her cheeks and chin, there was nothing to indicate how capable the woman was when it came to the battlefield, save for a faint scar that ran across her left eyebrow.
The woman moved with a light and relaxed countenance, spoke in a soft and unassuming manner, and had a friendliness about her that Hawke realized were the reasons why so many people made the fatal mistake of underestimating the slight elf and her welcoming smile.
Because Nehra transformed into a beast when in the heat of combat, one that Hawke had seen firsthand while on the shores of Hercinia. While she had been dazed and delirious from blood loss and lack of food and water, there was no way that Hawke could have missed the fight between Nehra and her company, and the bandits that tried to loot the half-drowned woman they found on the beach.
Her lithe frame had been an advantage, and Nehra was the first to come to Hawke’s aid, the elven woman’s Dar'Misaan flashing through the air and easily piercing the first thug’s back and coming clean out the other side before the man could even react.
Just as the corpse dropped to the ground, Nehra screamed out a battle cry, ready for the next attacker, her eyes burning and her mouth twisted into a feral snarl as she launched herself at the next bandit.
Hawke’s tired and fevered mind could barely process the rest of the fight. The gang of thugs, suddenly realizing that they had a fight on their hands, turned as one to Nehra and attacked. And even though the elf was severely outnumbered, she readily held her own until the rest of her company caught up a few minutes later.
After that, it was merely a matter of time before the last bandit’s lifeless body fell to the beach.
Nehra calmly wiped the blood from her Dar'Misaan on her trousers and sheathed the weapon before turning to Hawke, her pale violet eyes taking in every detail of the Fereldan still on the ground, and she knelt down beside her, “Are you alright, my lady?”
“Hawke. Just call me Hawke,” The Champion sputtered out, her voice weak and her throat feeling raw. She licked her cracked lips, wincing from the slight sting, “And you are?”
“Nehra. A pleasure to-“ The words were an automatic response, then Hawke saw the moment when the name slammed home, and the elf blinked before recognition dawned in her eyes, “Hawke. I know that name,” The elf’s eyes flicked to Hawke’s midsection, and the mercenary understood the thought behind the gesture, “You’re her, are you not? You are Marian Hawke.”
“Yes. I am.” Hawke said, her words firm and unmistakable. It was a very dangerous gamble, to confirm who she was, but then again, Hawke wouldn’t have gotten to where she was today if she wasn’t the type of woman who regularly played fast and loose with dangerous gambles.
Andraste’s blessed bouncing tits, her own mate was a walking and talking dangerous gamble, in all her breath-taking lethal glory.
Speaking of her mate.
“Listen, Nehra, it’s really nice to meet you and all but there’s somewhere I have to be.” Hawke said urgently, trying to stand, but stopped short when the motion immediately caused her vision to burst into bright spots of color and every muscle to protest loudly. She groaned and dropped back down into the sand, gritting her teeth to stop another groan from coming out.
Now that she had moved, Hawke was suddenly and very painfully aware of just how many wounds and bruises she had. Wounds that were soaked for hours in seawater and now had little pieces of dirt and salt embedded deeply into her flesh.
Fuck.
Not to mention, her right ankle was hideously discolored and swollen, and her left knee was twinging in a very agonizing way. It wasn’t broken, but the pain told Hawke that it was severely dislocated and would need at least a week’s bedrest to heal properly.
A week she didn’t have. Not if she wanted to-
“I’m sure you do, Hawke, but it looks like you are not going anywhere with those injuries of yours,” Nehra said casually, waving her hand over Hawke’s knee and ankle. She quieted for a moment, eyeing Hawke in consideration, before she turned to one of the men standing silently behind her, “We are bringing her back to the keep with us. Go create a makeshift transport, please.”
“Are you sure, Nehra?” The man glanced down at Hawke with a very cautious look, then back at the elf, a small and teasing grin building on his face, “The boss did say that you should stop bringing back strays to the keep.”
Nehra laughed, a light and carefree sound, her eyes landing on the daggers still strapped to Hawke’s back, “Yes, I remember,” She reached out and gently brushed Hawke’s bangs away from her eyes, “But I do not think she will mind. I am willing to bet that this particular stray is much more valuable than all the rest in Thedas combined.”
Nehra stood, walked to another of her men, and after a minute, came back with a small canteen. She opened the container and placed the lip against Hawke’s mouth. “Drink.”
When the Fereldan looked down at the canteen and then back up to Nehra’s eyes with suspicion coloring her gaze, Nehra shook her head, “It is safe, Hawke. See?” To demonstrate her point, she took a quick sip from the canteen before placing it back on Hawke’s lips, “It is merely water, I swear.”
A small gesture of trust, one that finally broke through Hawke’s innate wary nature, and she took a small sip of her own. When the elf’s words proved true and clean water rushed into Hawke’s mouth, she couldn’t stop the way that she greedily drank the rest of the canteen dry.
After putting the emptied canteen away, Nehra reached down, cupped the back of Hawke’s neck, and helped her to sit up. Hawke coughed a little, wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, and sighed, “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome,” Nehra glanced around, saw that her men weren’t finished with her request, and looked back at Hawke, “Will you tell me how you ended up here?”
At Nehra’s question, the same frantic urgency rose up in Hawke.
Her mate needed her, and suddenly, the Alpha in Hawke stirred to life, and she forgot every pain rushing through her body. The primal call to go to her mate was powerful and almost impossible to resist, but Hawke’s rational mind still reminded her of one more important thing.
She needed help to get to Isabela. And she knew just how to get the message through to the people she needed help from.
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know, Nehra, but there’s something I need you to do for me first.” Hawke said, the urgency coloring both her eyes and tone.
“And what is that?” Nehra responded, her brow arching in curiosity.
Before answering, Hawke reached up, and even though her heart was aching terribly at what she had to do, there was no better way to do it, and she untied the blue bandanna around her arm. Then, she reached behind her, drew one of her daggers, and before Nehra could even react, she placed the tip of her blade on her palm and sliced a shallow wound open.
In front of Nehra’s stunned gaze, Hawke dipped her finger into the blood pooling on her palm and wrote out a single word on the dirty and torn fabric, before handing the bandanna to the still-silent elf.
“I need you to send this to Val Royeaux. Today.” The Champion’s voice trembled, an echo of the trembling of her heart, “Please.”
“As you wish, Hawke,” Nehra took the bandanna, still dazed at the sudden turn of events and the unexpected request, “Who should I send this to?”
“Warden Bethany Hawke,” A heavy swallow, then an even more tremulous voice that followed, “My sister.”
“Are you still with me, Hawke?” The quiet question interrupted Hawke’s reminiscing, and she looked back to Nehra, who was apparently still waiting for her to answer.
Hawke sat up, her legs dropping to the floor, and she rubbed the back of her neck, “Yeah. Sorry, Nehra,” She sighed and looked out the open window, her eyes growing clouded and her voice growing quiet, “You already know why I can’t say yes.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve been saying it since the moment we met on the beach,” The reply was just as quiet, but Hawke could hear the sincere regret in the elf’s words, “But you also know why we can’t say yes to your request either.”
“Yeah. Your boss certainly isn’t shy when it comes to what you want from me.” Hawke’s tone was bitter and unwarranted, but she couldn’t help it.
“You know what they say when it comes to dwarves and their gold,” Nehra’s laugh was just as light and carefree as the one that Hawke heard on Hercinia’s beach, “She’s right, you know. That is the way we have always done it around here. And that one rule is unbreakable, even for the famous Champion of Kirkwall.”
The sound of her title caused Hawke to scoff and roll her eyes. Maker damn it to the Void. Will she never be free of that blasted thing? Even now, years later and hundreds of miles away, the City of Chains still found a way to keep Hawke fettered to its curse and all the burdens it placed on her shoulders.
“Pffft. Knock it off with that fucking bullshit,” Hawke shook her head even as Nehra chuckled at the profanity, “I hated hearing it then, and I hate hearing it now.”
“I understand, but it’s a reputation that certainly precedes you. Not to mention, all those legendary and wild things that they say you did back at Kirkwall. It’s definitely why the boss did not mind when we brought you back here with us,” Nehra patted Hawke’s knee, pleased that the injury had finally healed, then inclined in her head in a rush of sudden curiosity, “Speaking of wild and legendary things, is it true?”
“Is what true?” Even as she spoke, Hawke was almost certain as to what her companion was referring to. Then, to her immense chagrin, Nehra’s next words confirmed it.
“The Arishok fight,” Nehra noticed the way that Hawke’s eyes instantly darkened at her response, but couldn’t stop the words from coming out of her mouth, “They say that you challenged the Qunari general in single combat to save your pirate lover from being taken back to Par Vollen.”
Had it been anyone else, Hawke would have immediately stood, taken her weapons in hand, and ran them through, both for reminding her of the painful memory and the even more painful reminder of her mate’s current precarious situation.
But this was Nehra, and Hawke owned the elven woman more than she could ever repay. Not only did the elf save Hawke’s life on the beach, but she also took it upon herself to oversee the Champion’s recovery. She insisted on it, adamantly so, and Hawke wasn’t one to question what motivations the elf had to care for her beyond her value to Nehra’s company.
So, all Hawke could do was sigh. It wasn’t Nehra’s fault that Hawke was in the position she was in now.
No, it was someone else’s fault, and Hawke had already vowed on the Maker’s tiny balls that she would give him his due when the time came. A very painful due that was a very long time coming, in Hawke’s humble opinion. One that she would very happily deliver on when she got the chance.
Setting her dark thoughts aside, Hawke turned her attention back to the patiently-waiting elf, “Yeah, it’s true.”
“By the Dread Wolf!” The sudden exclamation brought a small smile on Hawke’s face when she remembered who else she would regularly hear it from in the past, in the same awed tone, and then her heart ached once more when she thought about that person.
At that moment, a sizable part of Hawke hoped, by some miracle, she would see Merrill soon. If she had to pray to the Maker or even to the numerous gods of the Dalish pantheon to have that miracle granted, she had no problem doing so.
“That’s the appropriate response, I think,” Hawke chuckled, neatly tucking her thoughts and hopes away in a corner of her mind. She would come back to them later, she promised herself, when she was alone once more, “It was one of the craziest and most ass-clenching fights I’d ever been in.”
Hawke quieted and reached to the tray, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into her mouth, chewing then swallowing with exaggerated slowness. After a few seconds, she aimed an expectant and smug look at Nehra, which coaxed a loud groan from the elf as she jokingly pushed the Fereldan’s shoulder.
“Come on Hawke, you can’t just open with something like that and not tell me the rest of it!” Nehra grabbed Hawke’s ale and took an excited swig, something that made the Champion laugh indulgently. It certainly was a story that deserved to be told over liquor, and if this was something she could do to balance the scales between her and Nehra even the smallest bit, then she would.
Taking the mug from Nehra and taking her own small gulp, she handed it back to the elf, whose violet eyes with dancing with anticipation, and Hawke began telling the tale with all the flourish and drama that another friend would have had, had he been the one telling it.
And as she did, another hope sprang to life in the Champion’s heart.
******
“Hey! You bloody wankers, I’m dying over here!” The loud complaints were accompanied by an even louder clanking of metal striking against stone, “Where’s my fucking ale, you miserable pricks?!”
As expected, the sounds merely faded away into silence in the cold stillness of the prison cell, and Isabela sighed in irritation as she leaned back against the stone wall behind her. She crossed her arms against her chest, growling under her breath when the movement was slightly restrained by the shackles around her wrists, and she closed her eyes.
It was beyond ridiculous for the Queen of the Eastern Seas to be bound like this. It’s not like Isabela had never been in chains before in her life, but in all fairness, those times were usually a lot more pleasant than her current situation.
And it wasn’t like Isabela had never been in a dungeon before, either. Although her last few stints in one of these things had been because Captain Man Hands had no choice, since there were already one too many complaints from Kirkwall merchants about their wares disappearing after a certain dark-haired Rivaini woman was seen lingering around their stalls.
Fuck me in the ass with a dull shank. I can’t believe how much I’m missing the ginger battering ram right now. Isabela’s lips curled into a small smile. I hope she’s getting railed on the regular by that husband of hers.
As annoyed and restless as she was, there wasn’t much that Isabela could do to fix her current situation. Her captors knew all her tricks too well; not surprising, since she had learned all those same tricks from them in the past. Upon her capture, they not only removed all the visible weapons on Isabela’s person, but they immediately went through every nook and cranny of her body to look for hidden lock picks, wires, and all her other little tools.
And they had been very thorough about it, too. Her captor’s men removed almost every single piece of jewelry the pirate wore, went through her raven tresses with a fine-toothed comb, and even checked the inside of her mouth just in case.
It was the first time in years that Isabela’s earlobes and fingers were bare. They even removed the stud from beneath her lower lip.
She was free from almost every piece of jewelry, because her amber eyes had fired up into a deadly blaze the moment one of the men made a move to remove her necklace. It was a fiery glow that promised no one would be spared if any of them so much as sneezed in the general direction of the heavy gold choker around her neck.
There was a very tense moment, a silent standoff that promised steel and fists and blood would be flying in the next heartbeat, until someone cautiously suggested that one of the slaves could simply check the necklace for anything that could help Isabela escape. The slaves ran their hands over every inch of the heavy chain, pronounced it clean, and her captors backed off, leaving Isabela alone to enjoy her little victory.
It seemed reasonable, expected even; the choker, with its golden inlay and its precious stone inset, was certainly a valuable piece and she was a pirate, after all. But it wasn’t the necklace that Isabela was willing to risk limb and life to protect.
No, it was what the choker was hiding underneath it: the reminder of a treasure worth more than anything the Raider had stolen or plundered in the past, and she was certain, worth more than anything she would ever obtain in the future.
Isabela’s mating mark.
Her mark pulsed to life, small warm waves rippling across her skin, and Isabela had to bite her lower lip to stop it from trembling. This was beyond even beyond ridiculous. When did the Queen of the Eastern Seas ever need someone so badly that her first thought upon waking up in a dungeon cell wasn’t even about her own welfare? When did the Sharpest Blade in Llomerryn lower her defenses enough and allow someone to not only waltz her way through them, but plant herself so firmly, so inextricably into every aspect of Isabela’s life? How did Isabela, the famed and feared Raider, the Captain of the Siren’s Call, find herself so hopelessly and helplessly in lo-
A growl of irritation broke in the Rivaini’s throat, her mind still unwilling, still unable to finish the thought. Even if the feeling was now coursing through every fiber of her being, a powerful and unstoppable one, it was still a very different thing to be able to acknowledge it, even to herself.
Damn Hawke. Damn that woman to the deepest pits of the Void.
None of this was Hawke’s fault. Isabela knew that. If anything, Hawke had tried to dissuade her from pursuing this course of action with her usual irreverent humor and snarky little side comments, but not even the Champion of Kirkwall and all her bluster could stand against the Queen of the Eastern Seas when she put her mind to something.
But then again, hadn’t that been Isabela’s relationship with the Fereldan ever since they met all those years ago in the Hanged Man? All Isabela had to do was ask, and no matter what kind of insane and dangerous adventure lay before them, it had always been Hawke and Isabela who had each other’s backs, their daggers flying through the air just as easily as their carefree laughter and suggestive flirting.
And what had begun as something carefree and fun slowly evolved into something much more complicated and, for the Rivaini, terrifying. When she realized how much she had come to depend on Hawke, how her life now seemed unimaginable without the Fereldan in it, it had frightened Isabela enough to leave Kirkwall without a second glance. Even if her last image of Hawke before she left was the woman lying in a blood-soaked bed with a ragged gash in her belly, nauseatingly pale and weakly moaning in pain as Anders tried desperately to heal the near-lethal wound.
A gaping wound that Hawke had gotten trying to defend her. At the time, Isabela had tried to argue with herself. Wasn’t it Hawke’s fault anyway? The woman’s infuriating sense of decency and justice had wormed its way into Isabela, and it compelled her to return to Kirkwall with the damned Tome of Koslun to try and fix the whole damned mess.
And even then, it was still Hawke’s fault for challenging that fucking Arishok to a fucking duel! Isabela would have found a way to escape from the Qunari’s clutches somehow, and make her way to somewhere that she could be free of both Hawke and those bloody stupid ox-men forever.
But those were all thoughts that Isabela merely had to stop the throat-strangling guilt she felt because it wasn’t Hawke’s fault at all.
It was hers.
And that self-admission was almost enough to stop Isabela from leaving.
Almost.
Those three years away from Kirkwall, away from those piercing blue eyes and those cocky lips, should have been enough for someone like Isabela to move on completely and leave the Fereldan firmly in her past. Andraste’s saggy tits, three hours used to be enough for Isabela to forget anyone!
But, no. Along with her infuriating sense of decency and justice, Hawke herself had wormed her way into Isabela’s heart.
Which meant that every single day of those three years had been torture for the Rivaini. No matter where she went, where she looked, what she drank, or who she fucked, it had always been Hawke that her heart had cried out for. Hawke’s strong arms around her, the Fereldan’s warm and familiar body beneath hers, Hawke’s low and raspy voice whispering into her ears.
And Hawke’s scent. That intoxicating mix of warm sandalwood and rich jasmine, a fragrance that Isabela had smelled during the first time that she and Hawke shagged in the woman’s estate back at Kirkwall. A scent that had sent the Omega into a dizzying tailspin during that night, and a scent that, during those three years, would almost drive Isabela to madness whenever she thought about it.
The same scent that, when Isabela came back to Kirkwall, mixed her own and blanketed the air in her tiny room at the Hanged Man when the Omega and the Alpha of Kirkwall finally sealed their bond.
The memory of their binding sent an intense shiver through the Omega. It wasn’t the first time that the powerful body willingly gave itself to Isabela’s eyes and mouth and hands, writhing helplessly underneath her talented touch. It wasn’t the first time that Hawke had sighed in contentment and satiation as she wrapped her arms around Isabela after they had sex. It wasn’t the first time that those piercing blue eyes softened in adoration and devotion as they gazed into her amber ones.
But it was the first time that the low and raspy voice had whispered into her ears, after they had released moans of pleasure and sighs of surrender, of how much Hawke loved her. It was the first time that Isabela spent the night, cuddled warm and safe, in someone’s strong arms.
And, most importantly, it was the first time that Isabela had woken up to the gray light of dawn, still completely wrapped up in Hawke’s arms. There was a moment then, a single heartbeat’s worth, when a sheer and breath-stealing panic ran through the pirate.
But in that same moment, Isabela also felt the faint stinging on her collarbone, and the slight pain brought back with it the glorious memory of copper and salt on her tongue. Those two things were enough for Isabela to settle back down into Hawke’s arms.
Then, after making sure that the Fereldan was still dead to the world, Isabela took a very deep breath, and very quietly whispered three words into the dark and fresh bite mark on Hawke’s collarbone. Three words meant only for her Alpha.
My Alpha. My beautiful, wonderful, fucking perfect Alpha. Isabela’s fingers unconsciously reached up and brushed over the necklace, over the spot that hid her mark. Where the fuck are you, Hawke? You’d better be okay, sweet thing, or I swear I’ll throw you to the sharks myself the next time we’re out to sea.
There was an illogical part of her that hoped, desperately, that her thoughts could somehow transmit themselves to her mate, but she also knew that the bond didn’t work that way. While it did allow mates to share emotions while they were close to each other and, eventually, would draw them together regardless of distance, it wasn’t an all-encompassing magic that allowed them to telepathically communicate.
At least, not outside of a mating bond.
Fuck. I am so going to get laid after all this shit. Isabela promised herself with another huff of annoyance.
Then, all her musings were broken when the door to the dungeons swung open, and Isabela heard footsteps headed straight for her cell. She kept her eyes closed and her head leaned back against the cool stone behind her, even as a voice spoke out into the stillness of the dungeons.
A voice rich and cultured with the accent of Antiva.
“I know you’re awake, my dear,” The voice tsked in disappointment, “Surely you didn’t think such a crude ruse would fool me.”
There was no point in pretending any further.
Isabela opened her eyes, stood, and casually swaggered over to the bars of her cell, leaning her shoulder against the cold iron beams and making a show of examining her chipped nails before tossing over an arched brow and a wicked smile, “Speaking of crude, I can’t believe you’d allow the Queen of the Eastern Seas to be treated like this,” She shook her wrists, the motion causing the restraints on them to rattle, “Shackles on my wrist already and not even a drop of spirit to ease me into your kinks? Come on, Castillon. I thought you knew what I liked before getting chained up.”
Castillon barked out a laugh, the sound a peculiar mix of amusement and mockery, “Still the same honeyed and clever tongue, Isabela?” He chuckled and crossed his arms as he clucked his tongue, “It’s good to know that the years haven’t changed the Queen of the Eastern Seas one bit.”
Unable to stop herself, Isabela huffed and muttered, “You’d be surprised,” Then she shook her head, slightly irritated with herself at the slip, and forced the wicked smile back on her face, “What do you want, you Antivan seadog?”
“What I want? You already know what I want, Isabela,” Castillon raised his own brow, the edge of his lips curling into a satisfied smirk, “I want you back at my side, sailing and raiding the coasts of Thedas just like the good old days. Back when we had the Felicisima Armada at our fingertips, just like the whores you used to have at yours at those whorehouses you frequented in Llomerryn.”
“Is that all?” Isabela’s laugh was deliberately careless and brimming with easy confidence, just like the toss of her hair over her shoulders, “Then get me out of this fucking cell, Castillon, and you’ll see just how much the years haven’t changed the Queen of the Eastern Seas.”
“A pretty promise, I’ll give you that,” Castillon’s laugh was just as careless and confident, “But you’ll also need to deliver on the last part of what I want, my dear,” His smirk returned, but this time, it was dark and full of vicious intent, “The Champion of Kirkwall’s head, her blood dripping from your blades,” He moved closer to the cell, but not quite close enough for Isabela to reach him through the bars, “If you swear on the Armada that you will bring me her head, you’ll have your freedom in an instant.”
The code of the Felicisima Armada was not something Isabela was willing to cross or fuck around with, not even if it was only she and this revolting asshole who would hear her swear the oath. It was the same law that stopped Isabela from killing him back in Kirkwall and simply taking his ship when she and Hawke found the slaver’s documents, and it was the same law that held her in thrall, even to this day.
Being a pirate was in Isabela’s blood and breath, and even pirates had a code to honor.
In her old life, Castillon’s offer would have been laughably easy to take. Indeed, it would have been irresistible. A chance to sail the open seas once more, to plunder and steal to her heart’s content, to taste freedom in the salt of the ocean and of the breeze. To have her name whispered in dark ports and even darker brothels all over Thedas. To fight, to flirt, to fuck anywhere and with anyone she wanted.
All for the price of one life.
But it was that one life that made all the difference.
Because there was something that ran deeper inside Isabela; deeper than her sworn oath as a Raider, even deeper than the call of the ocean itself: the magic of the soulbond.
At that moment, the Omega inside Isabela screamed and howled in fury, a dark vengeance flooding inside her at the thought of someone, anyone, demanding that she hurt her mate. She imagined reaching out through the bars, and somehow, grabbing hold of the man’s collar and slamming his head into the iron beams until she held nothing but a useless sack of meat filled with broken bones and blood.
No one, fucking no one, lays a hand on Hawke.
But now was not the time to indulge in those things. If anything, letting this man know how much Hawke meant to her would only be signing her mate’s death warrant with her own hand. So, instead, Isabela threw out another deliberately casual laugh, her tone changing into something dripping with scorn, “Well then, you should have tried harder to kill her when you took me prisoner, don’t you think? That way, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation in the first place.”
The twitch that went off in the Antivan’s cheek told Isabela that her derisions hit home and caused a swell of grim satisfaction to swell inside the pirate’s chest. Another twitch in his leg told her that he wanted to step closer, but was smart enough not to put himself within reach of the pirate.
Damn it.
Castillon growled low in his throat, “Your smart mouth isn’t winning you any points today, my dear.”
Isabela merely gave him a feral grin in return, “Oh, you’d be surprised just how many things my mouth can win me, Antivan,” She turned around, an obvious gesture of arrogant dismissal, and she walked back to her earlier spot and sat back down, “Now go and get me some damn ale. Talking to you has left a fucking greasy taste in my mouth and I need something to wash it out with.” She punctuated her last taunt by gathering her saliva in her mouth and audibly spitting toward the Antivan’s feet, the shining glob of spittle flying through the air and splashing on the man’s impeccable boots.
Isabela watched the bright rage build up in Castillon’s eyes as the man clenched his fists, then she watched as he consciously willed it away, his posture relaxing into something casual and loose, “As the Queen of the Eastern Sea wishes.” He coupled his words with a low bow, the gesture just as arrogant as Isabela’s, then quickly turned and left the dungeon.
As he left, however, he closed the door with much more force than strictly necessary, and it was enough for Isabela to know that she had won this little duel. And it made her smile once more.
Then Isabela sighed, the small feeling of victory draining away with the sound, as the thoughts of her mate filled her head again.
Fucking Marian Hawke. Come on, sweetness. Go do your hero thing already and get me from this wretched shithole so that we can be done with that Antivan bastard once and for all.
Her mating mark pulsed against her skin, and since she was alone, Isabela finally allowed two things to happen. Two things she had been holding off all this time.
The first: A single tear rolled down her cheek, the only thing she allowed herself to acknowledge how much fear and misery she was going through at the thought of her mate being so far away, her wellbeing unknown. She wasn’t dead, Isabela was certain. The magic of the soulbond extended to that, and if Hawke wasn’t alive anymore, she would know. And that thought gave the pirate the courage to hope that her mate was coming for her.
The second: Two sentences flitted through her head, through her heart, through every fiber of her being. The second of which Isabela carefully folded away after it ran through her mind because it was a very dangerous and scary thing, much more dangerous and scary than the situation she was in now.
Please be safe, Hawke, please. I love you too damned much for anything else to be true.