Burning Up

for the right effect. It couldn’t just be something that floated. A kraken always forced to float on its side wouldn’t be terrifying; it would simply look dead.

Of course, that begged the question: how many sailors had actually seen a kraken, and knew whether it looked right or not? Surely the nightmare of one was worse than the reality.

Shaking her head, she glanced at the other fish in the tank. The small herring seemed to have no trouble remaining at one depth while still. A few weren’t moving, yet they didn’t sink or float to the surface. How?

And if she discovered how, could she replicate it?

Her heart gave a wild thump. She returned to the worktable . . . and gave the plans a quarter turn. Oh, blue. This could work.

No. This would work.

It was well after dark when Ivy finally made her way topside, but when she came up the ladder to the upper deck, she saw that Mad Machen hadn’t retired to his cabin yet, either. He stood on the quarterdeck, his feet braced, his hands clasped behind his back. She climbed the stairs and joined him at the balustrade.

Standing close to him, she asked quietly, “Does it need to look like the real thing?”

The deck lamps cast feeble light across his expression, but she couldn’t mistake his smile. “Give it giant eyes and tentacles, Ivy, and the rest won’t matter.”

Good. Hugging herself against the cold, she looked out over the water. The moon was full, throwing silver across the waves. She imagined a tentacle rising up from the surface, the suckers glistening like wet mouths, and gave herself a good scare. Shivering, she glanced back at Mad Machen. He’d been watching her.

“My leg hasn’t given me any trouble,” he said. “Climbing ladders and stairs is almost as easy as it was before. Thank you.”

She nodded, then gasped when he pulled her in against his side, his arm circling her waist. His heat surrounded her. She let herself melt into it, but had to warn him, “I smell like fish.”

He laughed quietly against her hair. “Cookie told me that you’d come and cut out fifteen fish bladders—and he asked that you be given galley duty. He said you handled a knife better than a Castilian assassin.”

“Thanks to the bugs in the mechanical flesh.” She lifted her right hand. Moonlight reflected in her fingernails. “They’re so precise, I could engrave my name on a grain of sand . . . if my heart didn’t beat, and I didn’t breathe. Even I’m not as steady as they are.”

“Nothing on a ship is that steady.”

Mad Machen was. When he stood like this, big and solid beside her, Ivy felt as if she could lean against him forever and he’d never falter.

“Why are you out here so late?” The last time was when the megalodon had chased them north. Her gaze skimmed the water again. “Was there trouble?”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

And her last coin. Ivy’s throat tightened, and her heart drummed hard against her ribs. Not since her first day in Port Fallow had she been without any money at all. She’d barely been an hour off the airship when Netta’s husband had spotted Ivy’s guild tattoo and hired her to repair his cart’s steam engine. She’d never had a lot of money, but she’d always had some. She’d always had a tiny bit of security.

Now she’d have none. And what would it gain her? A single day.

Mad Machen withdrew his arm from around her waist, gave her a little push toward the stairs. “Go and ready yourself for bed. I’ll wait here until you’ve finished.”

A single day, plus the time it took to prepare for bed. Ivy nodded and headed down. As always, Duckie had hot water ready—perhaps he’d been listening for her to come up from the smithy. The captain’s soft soap erased the clinging scent of fish. She brushed her hair until it crackled with enough static to deliver a wiregram, and for the first time, she dressed in a nightgown instead of the trousers she’d been sleeping in. Clutching her last denier, Ivy climbed into bed and waited.

When he came in, she rose up on her knees and held out the coin before she could change her mind.

He smiled faintly, but it faded as he approached. His face darkened. “Your hand is shaking.”

“Take it. Please.”

“Goddammit, Ivy. I’m not—”

“Please.”

His fingers folded over hers. With another curse, he took the coin and turned away.

Ivy sank down, hugging her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and listened to him undress, to the splash of water and the scrape of a razor. She heard him return to the bed, but as the seconds passed and he didn’t lie down beside her, she opened her eyes.

He stared down at her, his chest bare and his face a stark mask. “Earn it back.”

Her heart thumping, she sat up. “How?”

The wary note in her voice spread shadows over his expression. He seemed to struggle, his lips paling as they thinned. Ivy fought not to shrink back, sensing that her fear would only make his reaction worse.

After an endless moment, he said gruffly, “You’ll kiss me.”

Oh. That wasn’t so bad, was it? She frowned.

Mad Machen’s brows drew together. “What?”

She rose up on her knees again and moved toward the rail. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. She covered it with a light response. “I’m trying to decide what kissing a man in exchange for money makes me.”

“I’m only a denier away from forcing myself on a woman. What does that make me?”

“Cheap,” she said, and the warm flush building inside her heightened as he laughed.

His laughter stopped abruptly when she pursed her lips and raised her face to his. He drew back.

“Not a peck. A real kiss, so that you’ll have a good taste of me.”

Everything inside her tightened. A good taste. She knew what he meant. Not just touching lips, but a lick inside his mouth—and he’d taste hers.

Nervously, she wet her lips. Her gaze fell, and a deep hollow ache suddenly opened inside her. His thick erection jutted against his breeches. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted him. But she didn’t dare risk a child, not when the only money she had was being earned with a kiss. Biting her lip, she averted her eyes. No need to look down. His mouth was temptation enough.

“I want inside you, Ivy. I can’t deny that. But you don’t have to worry that I’ll take it beyond a kiss.” Mad Machen came forward again, gripping the bed rail. “I’ll keep my hands right here. You can touch me wherever you like, but I won’t let go of this. Alright?”

“Alright,” she whispered.

She scooted closer, until her knees hit the rail. His broad chest rose and fell as quickly as hers, each breath shallow and ragged—then stopping altogether as she pressed her mouth to his.

Oh. Warm and firm, his lips fit perfectly against hers. She waited, remembering how he’d shoved his tongue into her mouth two years ago, how her neck had hurt when he’d forced her head back, but he didn’t move. The only sound between them was the creaking of the bed rail as his hands tightened on the wood.

And her hands . . . He’d given her permission to touch him, the chest and arms that were an anatomist’s dream. Every night as he’d undressed, she’d admired him from across the cabin. Her eyes feasting, her hands empty. No longer.

Spreading her fingers, she slid their tips up the back of his hands, from knuckles to wrist. He breathed in sharply against her lips. The muscles in his forearms strained. Beneath his warm skin, nanoagents raced through his veins so quickly—as if his heart pounded. Hers did, too. His biceps bunched beneath her palms, and shook with effort, as if he carried a great weight rather than holding himself still. She parted her lips, and he froze, rigid as metal. But not beneath his skin. His blood raged like fire, nerves snapping with sensation, nanoagents enhancing it all and pulsing their messages to her fingers.

She tasted him—and suddenly she couldn’t concentrate on her hands, only the heat of his mouth. Hunger wound inside her, tight as a spring. Again, she licked between his lips, searching. She couldn’t define his flavor, not something she’d had before but just was him, slick and hot, and she wanted more.