PRINCESS OF THIEVES ▹ post-six of crows ✓

ii. the ghost of the mother

Kaz remembered cradling his newborn daughter to his chest for the very first time. She had fit so perfectly against him, small and soft, that it filled him with shock as much as terror. He watched those wide black eyes she inherited from her mother peer up at him with complete fascination and trust, never knowing she rested in the arms of a murderer.

I will try to be a good man for you, he vowed, bare finger trailing the slope of her pink cheek. But I will never let anyone hurt you.

His arms ached with emptiness now.

Kaz managed to escape the flames, but the farmhouse had been burned to ashes. It was just a place, just a house. A place of enough entrances and exits, where all the locks worked. A place to know which windows were barred, how many guards were posted, and which ones were alert. He might have cared for its loss once upon a time, years ago. Inside it was the beauty of his daughter's childhood, the stories of his brother, the laughter of his father, and the warmth of his mother gone long before them.

It didn't matter. It was just a house. The ones who lived in it were gone.

He was covered in blood. He had patched himself up enough times to manage it simply enough. He supposed he just forgot how painful being stabbed could be. He was battered, beaten and bruised, but he didn't care about any of the pain.

Everytime he closed his eyes, Kaz saw Jordan — her pain, her confusion, the look on her face as they dragged her away from him. He hadn't been able to stop them. He used to be the most terrifying thing in the Barrel, and he couldn't stop them. He hated himself as much as they hated the b—stards who did this.

Kaz paused in front of a cracked window — the last on the only wall left standing, looking at the cracked pieces for an imperfect reflection. He didn't recognize himself. Who was this strange man with greying hair and wild eyes? There had been a time when he would have faced any threat with cold detachment, with knives drawn and pistols blazing. What had changed? Was it merely the passage of time?

No. He knew it was more than that. He had become Kaz Rietveld again, and it had cost him dearly.

It had cost him Jordan.

You never get something for nothing, Brekker.

Kaz thrust his hand forward and slammed his fist into the window. The glass shattered and split against his gloves before he swiftly pulled away again. He pulled himself together. He ran his fingers through his hair. Straightened the lapels of his jacket. Snapped up his crow—headed cane. He'd managed to get to the safe in the office before the house completely collapsed in on itself.

He had what he needed. He was ready.

He was a liar, a thief, and utterly without conscience, but he'd made a vow, and Kaz Brekker would keep to any deal you strike with him. He would kill and rob and maim and torture whoever he had to, to preserve that vow, to ensure Jordan would be safe again.

The Bastard would return to the Barrel.

—

When Jordie tried to scream, they gagged her — the rag rough and dirty, churning her stomach. They bound her wrists to her chest, and one of the men tossed her into a longboat, rowing through the winding canals to a small ship anchored off the coast.

Now, she stood on the deck — cold and fragile. A sharp breeze swept across the dark waves, raising gooseflesh on her arms, and her proximity to the sea chilled her to the bone. There was no rain tonight, only the wind, the rough rope around her wrists, the bright face of the moon. She had dark hollows beneath her eyes, and the fragile trembling of someone who had left home and knew she could never go back again.