Rosalind’s heartbeat pounded like a war drum. She didn’t flinch, didn’t let her gaze waver from Nicholas Rivera’s pistol, even as her instincts screamed at her to move.
Cicilia groaned beside her, her breaths shallow. The blood pooling at her side made Rosalind’s stomach tighten. She needed medical help—fast.
But Nicholas wasn’t going to let that happen.
His smirk was lazy, his stance relaxed—too relaxed. That meant one of two things: either he was confident she wouldn’t risk making a move, or he had backup lurking in the shadows.
Rosalind had spent too many years in this world to assume it was the former.
“You always did have terrible timing,” Nicholas drawled, tipping his head slightly. “If you’d just stayed on deck, enjoyed your drink, maybe even danced a little, this wouldn’t have
