Chapter 11: Tangled Hearts and Shattered Trust

The Storm Reaper's engine hummed beneath Lucien's feet, its rhythmic sound the only thing that kept him grounded as he stared out over the cloud-choked horizon. The winds had shifted, signaling an approaching storm—but it wasn't the kind that could be weathered with sails and ropes. No, this was the kind of storm that tore apart friendships, shattered trust, and left nothing but ruins in its wake.

Behind him, the unmistakable sound of footsteps had him tensing. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. His instincts, sharpened by years of roguish survival, told him that this time, things were different. He'd been avoiding the inevitable, hoping that time would smooth over the jagged edges of the growing rivalry between the women. But deep down, he knew that wasn't going to happen. Not this time.

"Lucien," Marion's voice came, soft but firm, a warning under the surface. "We need to talk."

He spun around, expecting to see the usual playful glint in her eyes, but instead, there was only a storm. Her face was tight, her lips set in a thin line, and her posture was rigid—unlike the teasing, sophisticated lady he was used to. The tension between them had reached a breaking point, and her presence felt heavier than ever.

"I think we've talked enough, haven't we?" Lucien said, his words sharper than he intended. "Every time we talk, it just feels like we're dancing around the truth, and I'm not in the mood for games anymore."

Marion's eyes flashed with hurt, but she masked it with a dry laugh. "Games? You think this is a game?" She took a step closer, her voice dropping to something dangerously calm. "You've been stringing us along, Lucien. All of us. And we're supposed to just pretend it's fine?"

The air grew thick with tension, and Lucien's heart rate quickened, though he kept his face unreadable. "You think it's easy for me?" he shot back, unable to contain his frustration. "Every time I think I've got a handle on this situation, one of you goes and does something that makes it all so damn complicated. I'm trying to keep us alive, Marion. I don't have the luxury of worrying about—" He hesitated, then swore under his breath. "About us."

She blinked, her expression faltering for a moment before hardening again. "And that's the problem, Lucien. You think you can keep us at arm's length, but that's not how this works. I'm not just some fool you can toss aside when it gets inconvenient."

Before Lucien could respond, Rosie's voice rang out from behind them, sharp and laced with mischief. "Is this what it's come to, Lucien? You can't even keep your women in line?" Her tone was light, but there was an unmistakable bite to it.

Both Lucien and Marion turned, but instead of the usual flirtatious grin, Rosie's face was tight with restrained anger. She stood there, one hand on her hip, the other casually resting on the handle of her pistol. It was a pose that screamed both confidence and challenge—exactly what Lucien had come to expect from her.

"What's your problem, Rosie?" Marion asked, her words a little too cold for comfort. "You've been itching for a fight ever since we came on board. Why don't you take it out on the Crimson Hand, instead of us?"

Rosie laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. "Oh, I've been plenty busy with the Crimson Hand, thank you very much. But it seems like you two have decided to make my life a lot more entertaining with your little love triangle." She took a step closer to Lucien, her eyes never leaving Marion's. "Is that it, then? I'm just the distraction? The one who's only good for fun and games when you get tired of playing house with Lady Sinclair?"

Marion's eyes darkened, her voice icy. "You think that's what this is? That I'm some… some naive fool? You're nothing but a glorified pirate, Rosie. You take what you want, and when you're bored, you move on."

Rosie didn't flinch. If anything, her grin widened. "Sounds to me like you're jealous."

"Enough!" Lucien's voice cut through the tension like a blade. The heat in his chest was rising, his anger and frustration finally boiling over. "I'm not your damn prize to fight over, do you hear me? This whole thing—this… rivalry—it's not just about me!" He stormed past both of them, his fists clenched at his sides. "It's about the artifact. It's about the war. It's about everything else in this cursed world. You think we can't see that? We're all here trying to survive, and you're making it worse by turning everything into a damn competition!"

His outburst hung in the air, but the women stood there, both silent, both wounded in their own way. Slowly, he turned back to face them. His heart pounded in his chest, but there was no turning back from the confrontation now.

Marion opened her mouth to speak, but Rosie cut her off. "You're right, Lucien. We're all just trying to survive. But you can't just keep pretending we don't care about each other. We all have our own baggage, our own damn issues, and pretending like we're some team of perfect little soldiers isn't going to change anything."

Marion's voice followed, quieter now but still fierce. "We're not asking for your attention. We're not trying to be your playthings, Lucien. But we deserve more than to be shoved aside whenever things get uncomfortable."

Lucien's chest tightened. He had never felt more caught in his life. But in the silence that followed, something shifted. The distance between them was no longer just about the artifact or the war—it was about the feelings that had been bubbling up, hidden beneath layers of witty remarks, false bravado, and unspoken desires.

"I can't do this," Lucien muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't keep juggling you all like this. It's not fair. To any of us."

Rosie and Marion exchanged a look, one that Lucien couldn't quite decipher. It was an understanding—yet also an acknowledgment that things were broken. The delicate balance between them had shattered.

"I'm sorry," Lucien said, though it sounded hollow in the face of everything that had just been said. "But I need some time. I need to think."

And just like that, the storm within him—and between the women—had been unleashed. The cracks had formed, and there was no going back.

As Lucien walked away, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the storm that was only just beginning to gather. It wasn't just the war. It wasn't just the artifact. It was them. And in the end, he wasn't sure what would survive the wreckage.