Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

26 | The Deviation of Uncertainty

Nothing irritated Archer like the word plan.

He never realized how often that awful word was said, how frequent it came up in conversation. Let's plan this, let's plan that. If it all goes according to plan.

In his mind, the word plan was the bane of his existence. Nothing ever went according to plan. Not the plan they'd made in Port Marcel, not the one in Port Kiver, not the one he'd dedicated his life to. Plans were simply a guise of certainty, some fake form of protection and surety.

So he very simply, stopped planning. It happened overnight—or rather, the second he didn't cower in Bardarian's presence and decided to antagonize him instead. It happened the mere moment he decided he was going to fight and claw and do whatever it took to drag Silta away from the crown; the moment he decided he was going to have fun doing it.

The biggest thing Archer had over Bardarian was proximity. The Captain was always holed up with the bridge crew, too arrogant to associate with the lesser crew, too confident in his relationship with her to come down to the common room when they gathered. Archer, though, was always with her—in the strategy room, in the common room, watching her carefully from across the deck. It was almost too easy to get her alone.

You gave me everything he'd stopped giving. That's what she'd said to him, her words dripping with an uncharacteristic honesty. Now that Archer had time to digest those words, he couldn't stop hearing them. They echoed in his head, over and over. He assumed Bardarian had upped his game—or rather, he knew he did, because Silta was suddenly sporting all sorts of expensive diamonds. But still, the occasional glance told Archer he was not written off yet.

You're younger, smarter, and you're Myrian. By Silta's own admission, those were the things he had going for them. He just needed to capitalize them, pair them with her fatal flaw of validation.

Last night, Archer had been tossing darts at the wall with Rusher in the common room. He'd looked over at her only once, lounging over by the high-status crew like a popular girl he couldn't quite obtain. Then he'd looked away and didn't turn back.

If he'd constantly been looking, handing over his affection on a silver platter, she may not have cared. But that nonchalance, that feigned inattention was a punch to her ego. So she'd made her way over, taking the darts Rusher gave her so she could join in. Britter—who'd officially become Archer's personal cheerleader—followed her over, intent on watching the drama.

She beat them all over and over in darts, so much so that Rusher and Britter disallowed her from playing. She perched on one of the tables, talked about sailing paths and watched them throw their sets.

But for all her brilliance, she still took his lure regardless of whether she knew it was bait. "Tighten your core, Kingsley," she'd said, a knee-jerk correction of his form.

"Show me, then," he'd said back, tossing his dart. Rusher snorted, thinking it was simple banter, but Britter gave Archer an oh, you're good look.

In reaction, she glanced over at the bridge crew. Looking for Bardarian, simply wondering if he was there. He wasn't.

When it was Rusher's turn, Archer leaned next to her table. He'd nodded to the necklace resting on her collarbones. "Pretty," he'd said.

"You like it?" she asked, Siren grin in full force.

"I hate it," he replied, "but I love it on you."

She'd shaken her head. "Bait," she muttered.

He'd leaned closer. "Take it."

She'd kept that smile on, canines gleaming. She knew his game, knew his tactics. She knew, but it was still so easy for her to fall for them. She liked this back-and-forth, found pleasure in pitting men against each other.