Mar’i
The port of Cinder-Fell was a miserable place. The air was thick with the sulfurous ash of the dormant volcano it was built upon, and for the past three days, a freak, stationary electrical storm had locked down the sky-docks. No ships in, no ships out. The entire population of pilots, crew, and merchants was slowly going stir-crazy.
Mar’i was at her usual table in the corner of “The Melted Candle,” a tavern as grim as its name. On the table, next to her half-empty glass of spiced rum, were two of her worlds colliding. Her leather-bound navigational journal was open to a complex chart of atmospheric currents, but her hands were busy with something else entirely. She was meticulously stitching the final button-eye onto a small, stuffed creature made of blue and brown scraps of canvas—a floppy-eared sky-hound, a small, quiet creation for herself.
The tavern door swung open, letting in a swirl of ash-laden wind and a man who immediately drew every eye. It was Rafe. He was tall and lean, with the easy, coiled grace of a panther. He wore a pilot’s long-coat over a simple shirt, and his grin was as sharp and cocky as she remembered. He spotted her, and his eyes lit up with a challenge as he sauntered over.
“Well, if it isn’t the legend herself,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. “Hiding from the little lightning storm, Ghost of Kir’i?”
Mar’i didn’t look up from her stitching. “I’m plotting a course through it, Rafe. Something you’d need a map and a prayer for.”
He laughed, a genuine, warm sound that was surprisingly disarming. He slid into the booth opposite her, uninvited. His gaze flickered from the complex charts to the handmade toy in her hands. “Bold words for a pilot who’s grounded. I heard you took the Gilded Albatross through the Vortex last month. They say you didn’t just fly it, you danced with it.”
A wide, genuine smile finally broke across her face as she tied off the thread. “Dancing is the only part that matters,” she said, her voice warm and full of life. “The rest is just noise.”
“Is that what you’re calling it?” He gestured to her half-empty glass. “Looks more like brooding to me. Come on, Mar’i. Let me see the secrets of the great Ghost.”
There it was. The playful jab, the professional curiosity mixed with something more. She felt a spark of the old fire, the thrill of a good-natured duel. Instead of getting angry, she found herself smiling wider.
“Alright, hotshot,” she said, closing her journal with a soft thud. “You’re so interested in my secrets? Let’s play a game.” She leaned in, mirroring his posture, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A game of truths.”
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on.”
“For every truth you tell me about yourself that I don’t already know—a real truth, not some dockside boast—I’ll tell you one of my secrets.” Her eyes glinted with a dangerous, playful light. “And if I run out of secrets first… I’ll let you buy me a bottle of the good stuff.”
“And if you win?” he asked, his voice low.
Her smile widened. “If I win, you come back to my ship. And I’ll show you a secret that you can’t find in any chart.”
The air between them crackled with an energy that had nothing to do with the storm outside. The game was on.
Rafe’s grin was a flash of white in the dim light. “A game of truths? Mar’i, you don’t want to play games with me. I’m a terrible liar, which means I’m an expert truth-teller.”
“Prove it,” she challenged, taking a slow sip of her rum. “You start.”
He leaned back, draping an arm along the top of the booth, a picture of casual confidence. “Alright. An easy one. The first time I ever solo-piloted, I was so scared I nearly turned back. I flew the whole way with my eyes half-closed, pretending I was just on a very fast, very bouncy horse.”
A small, surprised laugh escaped her. It was a good truth—humanizing, a little embarrassing. It made him more than just a cocky rival. “A horse? Really?”
“Don’t judge me,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about the great Ghost of Kir’i.”
She set her jaw, a flicker of her old defensiveness rising. But then she looked at him, at the genuine curiosity in his eyes, and decided to play. “The first star chart I ever made,” she said, her voice dropping slightly, “I drew on the wall of my family’s kitchen with a piece of charcoal. My mother was furious.”
The rapid-fire exchange began. He told her about the time he’d gotten drunk and tried to race a sea-serpent. She told him about the time she’d navigated a ship through a fog bank using only the sound of the waves against the hull. He told her he hated the taste of fish. She told him she could name fifty different cloud formations.
With each confession, the space between them seemed to shrink. He leaned forward to make a point, his elbow brushing hers. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she held his gaze as she responded, her voice a low purr. When he laughed at one of her stories, he reached out and his fingers lingered for a second on her hand where it rested on the table. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t flinch. She let him touch her. She let him see that she liked it.
“Alright,” he said, his voice softer now, the playful competition giving way to genuine interest. “No more easy ones. A real truth.”
Mar’i took a deep breath, the rum warming her blood, loosening the tight knot of pain she kept coiled in her chest. She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. Her eyes were dark, vulnerable, and held a depth of sadness that stole his breath.
“I’m afraid of the quiet,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “When the engines stop, and the wind dies… that’s when I hear them. The screams from the day the sky turned to fire and the mountain screamed back. I’d rather face down a hurricane in full rage than sit in the silence and listen to that.”
The air between them grew thick, heavy with the weight of her confession. The playful game was over. This was something else. This was real. Rafe’s expression softened, all traces of his cocky smirk vanishing. He didn’t offer pity or platitudes. He just nodded, a slow, understanding gesture.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice raspy. “For that.”
He reached across the table again, but this time his hand didn’t just brush hers. It covered it, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles in a slow, deliberate circle. The touch was possessive, comforting, and utterly intoxicating. It was a promise.
Mar’i felt a heat bloom low in her belly, a fire that had nothing to do with the rum. She was tired of talking. Tired of the past. She wanted to feel something new. Something real. Something right now.
Without breaking his gaze, she slid out of her side of the booth. The worn leather of her trousers whispered as she moved around the table. Rafe watched her, his eyes dark with hunger as she slid into the booth beside him, pressing her thigh against his. The space was gone. There was only the heat of their bodies, the scent of spiced rum and his skin, and the silent, smoldering promise of what was to come.
The world shrank to the space between them. The tavern’s noise, the smell of stale ale, the flickering lantern light—it all faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. All Mar’i could feel was the solid heat of Rafe’s thigh pressed against hers, the weight of his hand still covering hers, his thumb tracing lazy, hypnotic circles on her skin.
He didn’t speak. He just watched her, his eyes dark and intense, as if he were seeing straight through her vibrant armor to the haunted soul beneath. And instead of flinching away from the scrutiny, she found herself leaning into it. She was tired of hiding.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand over under his, her fingers twining with his. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a vow. His grip tightened, and a low, rumbling sound of approval vibrated in his chest.
“Mar’i,” he breathed, her name a rough caress. He lifted their joined hands, his gaze never leaving hers, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. It was the kind of chivalrous gesture that would have made her laugh an hour ago. Now, it sent a wave of heat straight to her core.
She didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she used it as leverage, leaning in closer until her lips were just a breath from his. She could feel the warmth of his mouth, smell the sharp scent of rum on his breath. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted it. But a forgotten feeling was bubbling up inside her—the giddy, intoxicating power of the chase. She wasn’t ready for the race to be over.
“Ah, ah,” she whispered, pulling back just as he began to close the distance. A slow, wicked smile played on her lips. “The game isn’t over yet, hotshot. I haven’t lost.”
A flicker of confusion, and then raw admiration, crossed his face. “Mar’i, I think we’re well past truths.”
“No,” she purred, her voice dropping to a husky, seductive murmur. “We’re just getting to the good ones.” She let go of his hand and brought her fingers up to his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone. “Your turn. A real one. Not about flying, not about work. Tell me about a woman. One you loved. One you lost.”
The request hung in the air, intimate and dangerous. He stared at her, his breathing shallow. He could have refused, could have pulled back into the safe territory of flirtation. But he didn’t. He held her gaze, and his own vulnerability laid bare in his eyes.
“Her name was Lyra,” he said, his voice rough. “She was a dockmaster’s daughter. We were young. She had this laugh… like bells. She wanted to see the world, but I was always leaving. I came back from one run… and she was gone. Married to a merchant. A safe man. A man who was there.” He looked down, a flicker of old pain in his eyes. “That’s the only truth that’s ever mattered.”
The confession was a gift. It was raw and real, and it shifted the ground between them completely. Mar’i’s heart ached for him, and for the girl she used to be. She leaned in and, instead of a kiss, she pressed her cheek against his, her lips brushing his ear.
“Her laugh wasn’t bells,” she whispered, her voice thick with a shared, ancient sorrow. “It was the sea. It was the sound of the water on the hull at night. I miss that sound more than anything.”
He wrapped his arms around her then, pulling her flush against him in a fierce, protective embrace. It wasn’t sexual; it was a meeting of two lost souls who had just found a map to each other’s pain. They held each other for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
Then, slowly, he tilted his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below her ear. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, and a shiver ran through her entire body. His hands roamed her back, possessive and sure. It was a touch that asked for nothing, yet offered everything. It was a balm on a wound she hadn’t realized was still open.
For the first time in a year, she didn’t feel the need to be the one in control, the one with the walls up. She felt safe. And in that safety, a forgotten part of her began to stir. The playful, sensual woman who loved the chase as much as the capture.
She let out a soft, contented sigh and melted against him. Under the table, she slipped out of her boots, the worn leather whispering as she kicked them aside. Slowly, deliberately, she stretched her legs, her stocking-clad feet finding his. She began to trace a slow, maddening path up the inside of his calf with her toes, feeling the hard muscle tense beneath her touch. A low groan rumbled in his chest, his hands tightening on her back.
“Another truth, Rafe,” she murmured, her voice thick with a renewed, vibrant desire. “But this one’s mine.”
He nuzzled her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “I’m listening.”
“Before the mountain screamed,” she began, her voice a little unsteady, “back on Kir’i… I used to dance. Not just for fun. I loved it. The feeling of a partner’s hand on my back, guiding me… the trust it took to let him lead, knowing he wouldn’t let me fall. I miss that. I miss the feeling of being held without it being a prelude to being used.”
As she spoke, her hand slid from his chest down to his thigh, her fingers tracing the hard line of muscle through his trousers. It was a bold, possessive touch, a stark contrast to the vulnerability in her words. She was claiming him, even as she revealed her softest underbelly.
His response was immediate. He shifted, giving her better access, his own hand sliding down from her back to rest on the curve of her hip, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above her waistband. “I would never let you fall, Mar’i,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
A genuine, brilliant smile lit up her face, a glimpse of the sun breaking through the storm clouds. “I know,” she said, and she did. It was the first time she had truly believed it.
She leaned back just enough to look him in the eye, her own shining with unshed tears and unadulterated lust. “Another truth,” she breathed, her foot sliding higher up his leg, her toes brushing against the inside of his thigh. “I haven’t wanted anyone like this since… since the day the sky turned to fire. I haven’t even let myself feel like this.”
His gaze darkened, his control visibly straining. He wanted her. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, in the way his pupils swallowed the color of his eyes. But he was letting her lead, letting her set the pace, honoring the game they had started.
“Then what are you going to do about it, Navigator?” he rasped, the challenge clear in his voice.
Her smile turned wicked, a predator’s grin. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, a promise of a kiss she didn’t yet deliver. “I’m going to win our game,” she whispered, her words like a fuse. “And then I’m going to show you exactly what it feels like to dance with the Ghost of Kir’i.”
Her words were a lit fuse. “And then I’m going to show you exactly what it feels like to dance with the Ghost of Kir’i.”
Rafe didn’t answer with words. He answered with action. A low, guttural groan was his only warning before his hands shot to her waist, gripping her with a desperate strength. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted her, pulling her from the seat and onto his lap. She straddled him, her knees sinking into the worn vinyl of the booth, the hard press of his need against the thin fabric of her trousers sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through her.
The game was over. The dance had begun.
His mouth crashed down on hers, a hungry, possessive kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate need. It wasn’t a kiss of seduction; it was a kiss of consumption. One of his hands tangled in her hair, holding her head in place while the other roamed down her back, gripping her ass and pulling her tighter against him.
Mar’i met his intensity with her own, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt, her hips rocking against his in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made him swear against her lips. The tavern, the noise, the world—it all ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body, the taste of rum on his tongue, and the frantic, pounding need between them.
Their hands became a frantic flurry of movement. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, his with the laces of her trousers. It was clumsy, urgent, and hilarious. They were like two teenagers, desperate and clumsy in their haste. A soft giggle escaped her lips as his hand got tangled, and he pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark and wild.
“Something funny, Navigator?” he growled, a grin tugging at his own lips.
“Just… us,” she breathed, finally succeeding in her task. He groaned as her fingers brushed against him, and then he was lifting her, just enough to tug her trousers down over her hips. The cool air of the tavern was a shock against her heated skin, but it was quickly replaced by the searing heat of him as he guided her back down.
He entered her in one slow, deep stroke. The sensation was so intense, so overwhelmingly good, that it stole her breath. It wasn’t a painful stretch, but a glorious, perfect homecoming. Her head fell back, a silent cry on her lips as her body adjusted to him.
He held still for a moment, his forehead pressed against her collarbone, his breathing ragged. “Okay?” he rasped.
She couldn’t speak. She just nodded, a wide, blissful smile spreading across her face. She felt whole. She felt alive.
Then, the game came back, but changed. Reborn.
“Truth,” she gasped, as he began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that built a fire in her belly. “I… I hate pickled herring.”
He let out a startled laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers. “What?”
“It’s your turn,” she panted, tightening her inner muscles around him, making him hiss. “Truth.”
He chuckled, a low, sexy sound. “Alright… uh… truth. I once stole a ship’s mascot… a wooden parrot… because I was drunk and I thought it was judging me.”
Mar’i burst out laughing, a real, unrestrained, joyous sound that turned heads at nearby tables. She didn’t care. She buried her face in his neck to muffle the sound, her body shaking with laughter and pleasure. “You’re an idiot,” she gasped.
“My turn,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming a little harder, a little faster. “Truth.”
“Okay! Okay!” she managed, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Truth… I slept with a stuffed sky-hound until I was sixteen.”
He lost it. He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, booming sound that was completely out of place in the grimy tavern. “Gods, Mar’i, you’re killing me.”
“Your turn,” she panted, her own laughter mixing with moans as he hit a spot that made her see stars.
“Truth,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips, his movements becoming erratic. “I… I am so unbelievably… happy… right now.”
Her laughter died, replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it almost broke her. She looked at him, at the raw, open joy on his face, and felt her own climax coiling deep inside her. “Truth,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Me too.”
He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing her cries as he drove into her, faster and deeper. The pleasure didn’t build; it simply arrived, like a tidal wave. A sudden, brilliant crest of heat and light that washed away everything—the past, the pain, the tavern, the world. It was a flash of pure, unadulterated joy so intense it was almost painful.
Her unrestrained, blissful laugh cut through the din of the tavern, turning a few heads. A grizzled old sailor at the bar glanced over, saw what was happening, and simply shook his head with a wry, knowing grin before turning back to his drink. A pair of dockworkers huddled over their cards paused, one letting out a low whistle of appreciative surprise. But Mar’i didn’t flinch. She caught the eye of a portly merchant woman who stared in open-mouthed shock, and Mar’i, still breathless and trembling, just winked and gave her a dazzling, unapologetic smile. She didn’t care. Let them watch. Let them see. For the first time in a year, she had nothing to hide.
She wasn’t quiet. She buried her face in his shoulder, her laughter and her cries of release mingling together into a desperate, beautiful sound. He followed her over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering against hers. They stayed tangled together, a sweaty, breathless, laughing mess in the corner booth. The world slowly came back into focus—the clatter of mugs, the drone of the bard. Rafe was still inside her, his face buried in her hair, his body trembling. She could feel his laughter, silent and deep, rumbling through his chest.
She lifted her head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with tears of joy and mirth. She looked at this ridiculous, wonderful man who had just helped her find herself again in the most unlikely of places.
“Hey, Rafe?” she whispered, a final, goofy grin spreading across her face.
“Yeah?” he mumbled, not lifting his head.
“Truth,” she said. “I think we won.”
