Free The Kraken King by Meljean Brook Page A

intrigued her physically and intellectually might not come again. She just had to be careful.
    “I’ll convince you,” he said softly, though she’d already done the job herself. But when she glanced up, he’d turned away from her to look behind them. “You should step back. We’re going to start cutting the tentacles.”
    A dozen men were coming across the sand, shirtless and on bare feet, carrying two twenty-foot long serrated blades between them.
    She looked at the governor in surprise. “You saw through the tentacles?”
    “Yes,” he said, then called out, “Taka!”
    His brother glanced over. She couldn’t understand anything of what the governor told him—but when he pointed to the top of the twisted heap of arms, she realized he was telling the other men which tentacle to start with.
    She waited until he’d finished. “I assumed you’d use a cutting machine.”
    He looked down at her again. “We used to. But when the tentacles tear free of the body, anything they land on is crushed beneath them.”
    “And one crushed the machine?” Zenobia guessed.
    “Yes.”
    He stripped off his tunic as he answered, then bent to remove his boots.
    Oh, my. On the flyer, her fingers hadn’t deceived her. Tight muscles defined his broad chest and shoulders, his every movement a beautiful display of strength beneath smooth skin that glistened with perspiration. His abdomen rippled as he stood again.
    Zenobia gestured faintly behind her. “I think I will stay and watch.”
    “Stand clear of the tentacles.”
    “I will.”
    “And find shade. You aren’t accustomed to this sun.”
    Or this heat. “I’ll send Cooper to find a parasol.”
    He didn’t respond. After a long second, Zenobia looked up from his impressive torso. She expected a grin, but instead of laughing at her, his dark gaze roamed over her expression, as if slowly measuring the arch of her brows and the curve of her lips.
    “My home is near yours.” His gaze settled on her mouth. “Come tonight.”
    Yes, she wanted to tell him. But she needed to be careful.
    “I’ll consider it,” she said again.
    ***
    At the bathhouse, Ariq soaped and rinsed away the squid, but skipped the soak. Any other night, ribald calls wondering at his hurry would have filled the bathing chamber, followed by sly observations about how well Lady Inkslinger held a pencil—most of them gleeful that it was finally Ariq’s turn to suffer through a courtship. His attention toward Zenobia hadn’t gone unnoticed. But after hours of sawing through a kraken’s tentacles, exhaustion had quieted the men sitting in the heated bath, and Ariq escaped with few suggestions tossed his way.
    Fastening his embroidered tunic, he emerged from the steam-filled chambers into an evening almost as humid. Clouds gathered in the northern sky. More rain coming. Not an airship in sight. Now that the marauders were dead, the airships would come again, too.
    Unless it hadn’t been the end of them. Ariq didn’t think that it was.
    Not with two men waiting by the cliffs. When Ariq had hailed them, they’d responded with a barrage of bullets. They didn’t speak a word before Ariq and Taka’s answering shots had killed them, but their presence told Ariq enough.
    They hadn’t participated in the attack on the airship. If destroying the airship had been their only goal, they’d have all gone. So those two men were supposed to report back. That meant there was someone to report back to . Someone giving orders.
    That person could hire more men—or recruit them—and it could all begin again. Ariq and Taka had helped cut off the arms today. They hadn’t gotten the head.
    And that head had decided to sacrifice a dozen men to bring down a French airship.
    Maybe to target Zenobia and the documents she carried. Maybe another reason. But whatever the marauders’ goal, too many people had already died for it.
    Ariq would find the head. Then he’d stick the bloodied skull on a pike and parade it