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look. Inside, everything hung in strict order. Pants in one section, shirts next—all arranged in a faded rainbow of color. A weapons belt hung between the shirts and a deep brown duster. She toyed with the belt, examining it with the eye of an expert. The leather was worn, but well made. It was smaller than hers, designed for fewer weapons, and she wondered if he favored guns or blades since there were holsters for both.
    “Blades.” She imagined him walking into a fight, at a visible disadvantage while some cocky gunslinger lazily drew a weapon. He’d whip the blade out and let it fly, embedding it in the other man before he even had the gun clear of its holster.
    Ever gave her head a fierce shake, shut the closet and reattached the straps. “He’s probably worthless with a weapon. Any weapon.”
    The bed beckoned to her weary body, and she perched on the edge of it, afraid what she might do if she allowed herself more comfort than that. Hands knotted in her lap, she breathed deeply, trying to replace thoughts of the captain with something else. Anything else.
    Images of Zeke’s face, flushed and smeared with gun oil, came to mind, and she sighed happily. He was a pleasant distraction, one she could cope with.
    She opened her eyes, calm at last, and saw the tintype near the head of the bed. Captain Pierce and a beautiful woman with wide, bright eyes and a mischievous smirk. Ever’s chest tightened, happy thoughts of Zeke banished from her mind. There was a woman waiting for Captain Pierce.
    “Good for him,” she said, trying to mean it, but the pang of jealousy didn’t abate. Her fingers laced behind her neck, Ever closed her eyes and pulled on her spine, hoping the pain would shake her free from her thoughts.
    A gentle cough made her eyes fly open.
    “You’re bleeding again.” The captain nodded at her arm.
    As she lowered her hands to look, blood dropped from the wound onto his coverlet. The crimson spot stood out in stark relief against the dingy ivory spread. It didn’t belong there any more than she belonged here. In his room. On his bed. Ever shot to her feet. “I am sorry. I did not—”
    The captain laid a hand on her shoulder, applying the gentlest of pressure to push her back down. “More worried about you than the bed.” He tossed some clothes next to her then went to his desk, unlocking a drawer and rooting around inside.
    Ever’s heart pounded against her ribcage. She should go. Take the clothes and…And what? He hadn’t assigned her quarters. There was nowhere on the Dark Hawk she could hide from him.
    And she didn’t hide.
    Men hid in fear of her, not the other way around. Her reputation haunted the borders of the Badlands. Prisoners sent into exile knew her on sight. They either feared or hunted her, thinking to make her some sort of trophy. She didn’t allow those men to live long enough to reconsider.
    Yet here she was, contemplating running from a man armed with nothing more than a cloth he dug from his desk. Ever squared her shoulders, determined to silence her irrational panic. He was just a man. A captain, yes, but still just a man—and a small one at that.
    “Here,” he said, dabbing at her arm with the cloth. “Keep some pressure on it unless you want to pay Henri a return visit. Personally, I don’t much fancy the idea of seeing her again tonight.”
    “Nor do I. Thank you for your kindness.” She held the fabric, convinced it was her own fingers that so warmed her skin.
    “For now, why don’t we discuss this mission of yours in a bit more detail?” He pulled the chair over from the desk, flipped it around and straddled it, crossing his arms along the back and looking at her.
    Ever fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. She wasn’t a criminal and this was not an interrogation. So why did his staring make her so uncomfortable? Instead of dwelling, she forced her thoughts to the matter at hand.
    “Queen Lavinia is dead. Her daughter, Laurette, is deep within