A Steamy Pirate Romance

WE’RE ALL THIEVES: A STEAMY PIRATE ROMANCE

BY DYRION KNIGHT

He swaggers on deck as if his body isn’t bound in chains. As if the lifeless figures of his guards aren’t strewn around us, leaking blood onto my boots. He meets my eye, his grin crooked, brows raised as he takes me in: a woman. A pirate. I can practically hear the thoughts running through his mind. Lost little girl, playing in a man’s world. He glances over my shoulder as if expecting to find the true captain, not some female swathed in deep red; corset tight and ruffled skirt too short. Edmund and Charold flank him, yanking him back as he approaches me with misplaced confidence.

‘And here stands our plunder,’ I purr, striding closer, hands braced on my hips, barely an inch from my pistol and blade. Now it’s my turn to take him in. He isn’t the broad hulking type, but he’s stacked with rippling muscles that he flexes as he tries to pull free from the chains. His hair is as deep as night, matching the depthless dark of his eyes and his face could have been chiselled from marble—sharp angles and defined cheekbones, skin as pale as bone. A stark contrast to the mahogany shade of my own.

Crimson blood drips from his lower lip and sucking it up, he spits it at my feet. They told me he was arrogant. I didn’t realise he was a fool as well. Jag Harver. Runaway, ruffian, and revered. Respected for all the things he did as a squib on the streets—stealing, conning, anything to make ends meet—and now he’s practically worshipped for that little trinket burned into his chest, glinting beneath his torn open shirt. The Crest of Miracles.

It’s about the size of my palm, a pattern of loops and swirls. Its gold iridescent,

green jewels dotting it like drops of spring. Many before him have tried to bind themselves to the artefact. Pressing it to their skin only to have it scorch its way through flesh and bone, tainting their blood with poison, until they die a slow, agonising death…but not Jag Harver. Rumour has it, when the relic touched his skin, he cackled and sang as it burrowed into his chest, and instead of burning through his heart, it settled there. His skin glowing like a lit torch and his eyes drizzling gold.

It’s ironic really that the Crest settled on Jag Harver, possibly the only person who never wanted—or needed—its power, the burden it brings. And so, he never uses it. I trail my finger down his chest now, pressing on the relic. He tries to step back but Edmund and Charold keep him in place. His eyes flash with anger, his jaw clenches. He could rip this ship to shreds, strike our flesh from our bones, but no, not Jag Harver. What a waste. All that power and yet he believes the myths. That the one who uses the Crest of Miracles’ energy, uses the energy of their soul. Stripping what is them from existence. I can feel his own power thrumming from him though. It seems to sizzle on the air. Like calls to like. Power to power. The Crest to Jag Harver.

‘What now?’ he growls. His dark stare seeping into me, peeling me apart. My heart stammers. He’s even more stunning than he is on the Wanted posters. His dark hair’s fallen into his face, the veins in his neck bulging as he still tries to pull free of the chains. He glares at me, waves of rage rolling off of him. He has the look of a pirate, a spirit as rampant as the sea. My toes curl. Stories of Jag Harver fuelled my childhood and I often dreamt of running away with the renegade thief. Handsome, cunning, and brave beyond measure. Too bad he’s now my prisoner and a condemned one at that.

Jutting my chin at Edmund and Charold, I say, ‘Bring him.’

‘Bring him,’ Jag scoffs. ‘No one’s bringing me anywhere.’ I’m surprised when his feet stay planted in place no matter how fiercely my men pull him. I glance at the Crest still nestled over his heart, unreactive. He isn’t using its magic…this is all him. His strength. His power.

I chuckle lowly, lifting my wide-brimmed hat to grant me a clearer view.‘Come with us, willingly,’ I warn, then gesture to my crew soaking the ship in

cannon powder and gasoline, ‘or burn with the dead.’

He actually seems to consider the options, lips twisted in thought. Suns! He’s arrogant.

Clicking my fingers, I shout, ‘Dexin, Farouk.’

Two of my crewmen rush over. Without having to be asked they each grab one of Jags legs—Edmund and Charold at his arms—and haul him off his feet. ‘You best learn to listen, Plunder,’ I grin when he scowls at the nickname, still tugging against the four men that bind him, ‘it’s a long journey back to Arkanium and will seem a hell of a lot longer if you keep trying to fight me.’

Dyrion Knight is a Brit with wit who loves delighting the imagination. Though she is an experienced USA Today bestselling author of Young Adult Fantasy (under a different name), Dyrion is new to the world of writing adult fantasy romance and has quickly fallen in love. Dyrion is the author of the Blood Bound Trilogy, a steamy pirate affair with monsters and magic! Book 1, We’re All Thieves, is out now and she’s gearing up to release book 2 in the winter of 2018.